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A MAN'S SINGLE 

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WHEN A MAN’S SINGLE. 




WHEN A MAN’S SINGLE 



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f 


WHEN A MAN’S SINGLE. 


CHAPTEE 1. 

EOB ANGUS IS NOT A FKEE MAN. 

One still Saturday afternoon some years ago a child pulled 
herself through a small window into a kitchen in the kirk- 
wynd of Thrums. She came from the old grave-yard, whose 
only outlets, when the parish church gate is locked, are the 
windows of the wynd houses that hoop it round. Squatting on 
a three-legged stool, she gazed wistfully at a letter on the 
chimney-piece, and then, tripping to the door, looked up and 
down the wynd. 

Snecky Hobart, the bellman, hobbled past, and though 
Davy was only four years old, she knew that, as he had put on 
his blue top-coat, he expected the evening to be fine. Tarn- 
mas McQuhatty, the farmer of T’nowhead, met him at the 
corner, and they came to a stand-still to say, “ Shea’s hard, 
Sneck,’’ and ‘‘ She is so, T ’now head, referring to the weather. 
Observing that they had stopped, they moved on again. 

Woman and children and a few men squeezed through their 
windows into the kirk-yard, the women to knit stockings on 
fallen tombstones, and the men to dander pleasantly from 
grave to grave, reading the inscriptions. All the men were 
well up in years, for though, with the Auld Lichts, the Sab- 
bath began to come on at six o’clock on Saturday evening, the 
young men were now washing themselves cautiously in tin 
basins before going into the square to talk about women. 

The clatter of more than one loom could still have been 
heard by Davy had not her ears been too accustomed to the 
sound to notice it. In the adjoining house Bell Mealmaker 
was peppering her newly washed fioor with sand, while her 
lodger, Hender Eobb, with a rusty razor in his hand, looked 
for his chin in a tiny glass that was peeling on the wall. Jinny 
Tosh had got her husband, Aundra Lunan, who always spoke 
of her as She, ready, so to speak, for church eighteen hours 


6 WHEN- A MAK^S SINGLE. 

too soon, and Aundra sat stiffly at the fire, putting his feet on 
the ribs every minute, to draw them back with a scared look 
at Her as he remembered that he had on his blacks. In a 
bandbox beneath the bed was his silk hat, which had been 
knocked down to him at Jamie Ramsay^s roup, and Jinny 
had already put his red handkerchief, which was also a pic- 
torial history of Scotland, into a pocket of his coat-tails, with 
a corner hanging gracefully out. Her puckered lips signified 
that however much her man might desire to do so, he was not 
to carry his handkerchief to church in his hat, where no one 
could see it. On working-days Aundra held his own, but at 
six o’clock Saturday nights he passed into Her hands. 

Across the wynd, in which a few hens wandered, Pete Todd 
was supping in his shirt-sleeves. His blacks lay ready for him 
in the coffin-bed, and Pete, glancing at them at intervals, 
supped as slowly as he could. In one hand he held a saucer, 
and in the other a chunk of bread, and they were as far apart 
as Pete’s outstretched arms could put them. His chair was a 
yard from the table, on which, by careful balancing, he rested 
a shoeless foot, and his face was twisted to the side. Every 
time Easie Whamond, his wife, passed him she took the saucer 
from his hand, remarking that when a genteel man sat down 
to tea he did not turn his back on the table. Pete took this 
stolidly, like one who had long given up trying to understand 
the tantrums of women, and who felt that, as a lord of crea- 
tion, he could afford to let it pass. 

Davy sat on her three-legged stool, keeping guard over her 
uncle Rob the saw-miller’s letter, and longing for him to 
come. She screwed up her eyebrows as she had seen him do 
when he read a letter, and she felt that it would be nice if 
every one would come and look at her taking care of it. After 
a time she climbed up on her stool and stretched her dimpled 
arms toward the mantel-piece. From a string suspended 
across this, socks and stockings hung drying at the fire, and 
clutching one of them, Davy drew herself nearer. With a 
chuckle, quickly suppressed, lest it should bring in Kitty 
Wilkie, who ought to have been watching her instead of wan- 
dering down the wynd to see who was to have salt fish for sup- 
per, the child clutched the letter triumphantly, and toddling 
to the door, slipped out of the house. 

For a moment Davy faltered at the mouth of the wynd. 
There was no one there to whom she could show the letter. 
A bright thought entered her head, and immediately a dimple 
opened on her face and swallowed all the puckers. Rob had 
gone to the Wliimny muir for wood, and she would take the 


WTTEIT A MAK’g 7 

letter to him. Then when Rob saw her he would look all 
around him, and if there was no one there to take note he 
would lift her to his shoulder, when they could read the letter 
together. 

Davy ran out of the wynd into the square, thinking she 
heard Kitty^s Sabbath voice, which reminded the child of 
the little squeaking saw that Rob used for soft wood. On 
week-days Kitty’s voice was the big saw that puled and rasped, 
and Mag Wilkie shivered at it. Except to her husband, Mag 
spoke with her teeth closed, so politely that no one knew what 
she said. 

Davy stumbled up the steep brae down which men are blown 
in winter to their work, until she reached the rim of the hollow 
in which Thrums lies. Here the road stops short, as if fright- 
ened to cross the common of whins that bar the way to the 
north. On this common there are many cart-tracks over 
bumpy sward and slippery roots, that might be the ribs of the 
earth showing, and Davy, with a dazed look in her eyes, ran 
down one of them, the whins catching her frock to stop her, 
and then letting go, as if, after all, one child more or less in 
the world was nothing to them. 

By and by she found herself on another road, along which 
Rob had trudged earlier in the day with a saw on his shoulder; 
but he had gone east, and the child’s face was turned west- 
ward. It is a muddy road even in summer, and those who 
use it frequently get into the habit of lifting their legs high as 
they walk, like men picking their way through beds of rotting 
leaves. The light had faded from her baby face now, but her 
mouth was firmest, and her bewildered eyes were fixed straight 
ahead. 

The last person to see Davy was Tam mas Haggart, who, 
with his waistcoat buttoned over his jacket, and garters of 
yarn round his trousers, was slowly breaking stones, though 
the road swallowed them quicker than he could feed it. Tarn- 
mas heard the child approaching, for his hearing had become 
very acute, owing to his practice when at home of listening 
through the floor to what the folks below were saying, and of 
sometimes joming in. He leaned on his hammer and watched 
her trot past. 

The strength went gradually from Tammas’s old arms, and 
again resting on his hammer, he removed his spectacles and 
wiped them on his waistcoat. He took a comprehensive glance 
around at the fields, as if he now had an opportunity of see- 
ing them for the first time during his sixty years’ pilgrimage 
in these parts, and his eyes wandered aimlessly from the som- 


8 


WfiEN A man’s single. 


ber firs and laughing beeches to the white farms that dot the 
strath. In the foreground two lazy colts surveyed him crit- 
ically across a dike. To the north the frowning Whunny hill 
had a white scarf round its neck. 

Something troubled Tammas. It was the vision of a child 
in a draggled pinafore; and stepping into the middle of the 
road, he looked down it in the direction in which Davy had 


“ Ohirsty Angus’s lassieky,” he murmured. 

Tammas sat down cautiously on the dike and untied the red 
handkerchief that contained the remnants of his dinner. When 
he had smacked his lips over his fiagon of cold kail, and seen 
the last of his crumbling oatmeal and cheese, his uneasiness 
returned, and he again looked down the road. 

“ I maun turn the bairn,” was his reflection. 

It was now, however, half an hour since Davy had passed 
Tammas Haggart’s cairn. 

To Haggart, pondering between the strokes of his ham- 
mer, came a mole-catcher, who climbed the dike and sat down 
beside him. 

‘‘ Ay, ay,” said the new-comer; to which Tammas replied, 
abstractedly: 

‘‘ Jamie.” 

Hae ye seen Davy Dundas?” the stone-breaker asked, 
after the pause that followed this conversation. 

The mole-catcher stared heavily at his corduroys. 

“ I dinna ken him,” he said at last; ‘‘ but I hae seen nae- 
body this twa oors.” 

“ It’s no’ a him, it’s a her. Ye canna hae been a winter 
here withoot kennin’ Kob Angus.” 

Ay, the saw-miller. He was i’ the wud the day. I saw 
his cart gae hame. Ou, in coorse I ken Rob. He’s an ama- 
zin’ crittur.” 

Tammas broke another stone as carefully as if it were a nut. 

“ I dinna deny,” he said, “ but what Rob’s a curiosity. So 
was his faither afore ’im.” 


I’ve heard auld Rob was a queer body,” said Jamie, add- 
ing, incredulously: ‘‘ They say he shaved twice i’ the week an’ 
wore a clean dickey ilka day.” 

“ No’ what ye wad say ilka day, but oftener than was called 
for. Rob wasna naturally ostentatious; na, it was the wife 
’at insistit on’t. Nanny was a terrible tid for cleanness. Ay, 
an’ it’s a guid thing in moderation, but she juist overdid it; 
yes, she overdid it. Man, it had sic a hand on her ’at even on 


WHEK A man’s single. 


0 


her death-bed they had to bring a basin to her to wash her 
hands in. ’’ 

‘‘ Ay, ay? When there was sic a pride in her I wonder she 
didna lat young Bob to the college, an’ him sae keen on’t.” 

“ Ou, he was gaen, but ye see auld Rob got gey dottle after 
Nanny’s death, an’ so young Rob stuck to the saw-mill. It’s 
curious hoo a body misses his wife when she’s gone. Ay, it’s 
like the clock stoppin’.” 

Weel, Rob’s no gettin’ to the college hasna made ’im 
humble.” 

“Ye dinna like Rob?” 

“ Hoo did ye find that oot?” asked Jamie, a little taken 
aback. “Man, Tammas,” he added, admiringly, “ye’re 
michty quick i’ the uptak.” 

Tammas handed his snuff-mull to the mole-catcher, and 
then helped himself. 

“ I daur say, I daur say,” he said, thoughtfully. 

“ I’ve naetHng to say agin the saw-miller,” continued 
Jamie, after thinking it out, “ but there’s something in’s 
face ’at’s no’ sociable. He looks as if he was takkin’ ye aff 
in’s inside.” 

“ Ay, auld Rob was a sarcestic stock too. It rins i’ the 
blood.” 

“ I prefer a mair common kind o’ man, bein’ o’ the com- 
mon kind mysel’.” 

“ Ay, there’s naething sarcestic about you, Jamie,” admit- 
ted the stone-breaker. 

“ I’m an ord’nar’ man, Tammas.” 

“Ye are, Jamie, ye are.” 

“ Maybe no’ sae oncommon ord’nar’, either.” 

“ Middlin’ ord’nar’, middlin’ ord’nar’.” 

“ I’m thinkin’ ye’re braw an’ sarcestic yersel’, Tammas?” 

“ I’d aye that repootation, Jeames. Am no’ an every-day 
sarcesticist, but juist noos an’ nans. There was ae time I was 
speakin’ tae Easie Webster, an’ I said a terrible sarcestic 
thing. Ay, 1 dinna mind what it was, but it was michty sar- 
cestic.” 

“ It’s a gift,” said the mole-catcher. 

“ A gift it is,” said Tammas. 

The stone-breaker took his flagon to a spring near at hand 
and rinsed it out. Several times while pulling it up and down 
the little pool an uneasy expression crossed his face as he re- 
membered something about a child, but in washing his hands, 
using sand for soap, Davy slipped his memory, and he returned 


10 


WHEN A man’s single. 


cheerfully to the cairn. Here Jamie was wagging his head 
from side to side like a man who had caught himself thinking. 

‘‘I’ll warrant, Tammas,” he said, “ye cudna toll’s what 
set’s on to speak aboot Eob Angus?” 

“ Ha, it’s a thing as has often puzzled me hoo we select 
wan topic mair than anither. I suppose it’s like shootin’; ye 
juist blaze awa’ at the first bird ’at rises.” 

“ Ye was sayin' had I seen a lass wi’ a lad’s name. That 
began it, I’m thinkin’.” 

“ A lass wi’ a lad’s name? Ay, noo, that’s oncommon. 
But mebbe ye mean Davy Dundas?” 

“ That’s the name.” 

Tammas paused in the act of buttoning his trousers-pocket. 

“ Did ye say ye’d seen Davy?” he asked. 

“Ha, it was you as said ’at ye had seen her.” 

“ Ay, ay, Jamie, ye’re richt. Man, I fully meant to turn 
the bairn, but she ran by at sic a steek ’at there was nae stop- 
pin’ her. Kob’ll mak’ an awfu’ ring-ding if onything comes 
ower Davy.” 

“ Is’t the litlih ’at aye wi’ Bob?” 

“ Ay, it’s Ohirsty Angus’s bairn, her ’at .was Eob’s sister. 
A’ her fowk’s deid but Eob.” 

“ I’ve seen them i’ the saw- mill thegither. It didna strike 
me ’at Eob cared muckle for the crittur.” 

“ Ou, Eob’s a reserved stock, but he’s michty fond o’ her 
when naebody’s lookin’. It doesna do, ye ken, to lat on afore 
company ’at ye’ve a kind o’ regard for yer ain fowk. Ha, it’s 
lowerin’. But if it wasna afore your time, ye’d seen the cradle 
i’ the saw-mill.” 

“ I never saw ony cradle, Tammas.” 

“ Weel, it was unco’ ingenious o’ Eob. The bairn’s faither 
an’ mither was baith gone when Davy was nae age, an’ auld 
Eob passed awa sune efter. Eob had it all arranged to ging 
to the college — ay, he’d been workin’ far on into the nicht the 
hale year to save up siller to keep ’imsel’ at Edinbory, but ye 
see he promised Ohirsty to look after Davy an’ no’ send her to 
the parish. He took her to the saw-mill an’ brocht her up 
’imsel’. It was a terrible disappointment to Eob, his mind 
bein’ bent on becomin’ a great leeterary genius, but he’s been 
michty guid to the bairn. Ay, she’s an extra’or’nar’ takkin’ 
dawty, Davy, an’ though I wudna like it kent, I’ve a fell no- 
tion o’ her mysel’. I mind ance gaen in to Eob’s, an’, wud 
ye believe, there was the bit lassieky sitting in the airm-chair 
wi’ ane o’ Eob’s books open on her knees, an’ her pretendin’ 
to be leadin’ oot in’t to Eob. The tiddy had watched him 


WEEK A man’s single. 


11 


fadin’, ye un’erstan’, an’, man, she was mimickin’ ’im to 
^he life. There’s nae accountin’ for thae things, but ondoot- 
edly it was attractive.” 

“ But what aboot a cradle?” 

“ Ou, as I was sayin’, Rob didna like to lat the bairn oot o’ 
his sicht, so he made a queer cradle ’imsel’, an’ put it ower 
the burn. Ye’ll mind the burn rins through the saw-mill? 
Ay, weel, Davy’s cradle was put across’t wi’ the paddles sae 
arranged ’at the watter rocked the cradle. Man, the burn 
was juist like a mither to Davy, for no’ only did it rack her 
to sleep, but in sang to the bairn the hale time.” 

‘‘ That was an ingenious contrivance, Tammas; but it was 
juist like Rob Angus’s ind’pendence. The crittur aye per- 
seests in doin’ a’ thing for ’imsel’. I mind ane day seein’ Uree 
Deuchars puttin’ in a window into the saw-mill hoose, an’ Rob’s 
fingers was fair itchin’ to do’t quick ’imsel’; ye kenCree’s full 
slow. ‘ See baud o’ the potty,’ cries Rob, an’ losh, he had 
the window in afore Cree cud hae cut the glass. Ay, ye canna 
deny but what Rob’s fearfu’ ind’pendent. ” 

“ So was his faither. I call to mind auld Rob an’ the min- 
ister haen a termendous debate aboot justification by faith, 
an’ says Rob i’ the tail o’ the day, gettin’ passionate-like, ‘ I 
tell ye flat, Mester Byars/ he says, ‘ if I dinna ging to heaven 
in my ain wy, I dinna ging ava.’ ” 

“ Losh, losh I he wudna hae said that, though, to oor 
minister; na, he wudna hae dared.” 

Y^'e’re a U. P. , Jamie?” asked the stone-breaker. 

‘‘ 1 was born U. P.,” replied the mole-catcher, firmly, an’ 
U.P. I’ll die.” 

“ I say nae thing agin yer releegion,” replied Tammas, a 
little contemptuously, “but to compare yer minister to oors 
is a haver. Man, when Mester Byars was oor minister, San- 
ders Dobie, the wricht, had a standin’ engagement to mend 
the poopit ilka month. ” 

“ We’ll no’ speak o’ releegion, Tammas, or we’ll be quar- 
relin’. Ye micht tell’s, thaugh, hoo they cam’ to gie a las- 
sieky sic a man’s name as Davy.” 

“ It was an accident at the christenin’. Ye see, Hendry 
Dundas an’ Chirsty was both \ery young, an’ when the bairn 
was born they were shy dike aboot makkin’ the affair public; 
ay, Hendry cud hardly tak’ courage to tell the minister. When 
he was haddin’ up the bit tid in the kirk to be baptized he 
was remarkable egitated. Weel, the minister — it was Mester 
Dishart— somehoo had a notion ’at the litlin was a laddie, an’ 
when he reads the name on the paper, ‘ Margaret Dundas/ 


12 


WHEK A man’s single. 


he looks at Hendry wi’ the bairny in’s airms, an^ says he, 
stern-like, ‘ The child’s a boy, is he not?” 

“ Sal, that was a predeecament for Hendry/’ 

‘‘ Ay, an’ Hendry was confused, as a man often is wi’ his 
first; so says he, all trem’lin’, ‘ Yes, Mr. Dishart.’ ‘ Then,’ 
says the minister, ‘ I can not christen him Margaret, so I will 
call him David.’ An’ Davit the litlin was baptized, sure 
eneuch.” 

‘‘ The mither wud be in a michty wy at that?” 

“ She was so, but as Hendry said, when she challenged him 
on the subject, says Hendry, ‘ I dauredna conterdick the min- 
ister.’ ” 

Haggart’s work being now over for the day, he sat down 
beside Jamie to await some other stone-breakers who generally 
caught him up on their way home. Strange figures began to 
emerge from the woods, a dumb man with a barrowful of roots 
for firewood, several women in men’s coats, one smoking a 
cutty pipe. A farm laborer pulled his heavy legs in their 
rustling corduroys alongside a field of swedes, a ragged potato 
bogle brandished its arms in a sudden pufi' of wind. Several 
men and women reached Haggart’s cairn about the same time, 
and said, “ It is so,” or ay, ay,” to him, according as they 
were loquacious or merely polite. 

“We was speakin’ aboot matermony,” the mole-catcher 
remarked, as the back-bent little party straggled toward 
Thrums. 

“It’s a caution,” murmured the farm laborer, who had 
heard the observation from the other side of the dike. “ Ay, 
ye may say so,” he added, thoughtfully, addressing himself. 

With the mole-catcher’s companions, however, the talk 
passed into another rut. Nevertheless, Haggart was thinking 
matrimony over, and by and by he saw his way to a joke, for 
one of the other stone-breakers had recently married a very 
small woman, and in Thrums, where women have to work, 
the far-seeing men prefer their wives big. 

“Ye drew a sma’ prize yerseT, Sam’l,” said Tammas, with 
the gleam in his eye which showed that he was now in sar- 
castic fettle. 

“ Ay,” said the mole-catcher, “ Sam’Ts Kitty is sma’. I 
suppose Sam’l thocht it wud be prudent-like to begin in 
a modest wy.” 

“ If Kitty hadna haen sae sma’ hands,” said another stone- 
breaker, “ I wud hae haen a bid for her mysel’.” 

The women smiled; they had very large hands. 

^ “ They say,” said the youngest of them, who had a load of 


WHEN A man’s single. 


13 


firewood on her back, ‘‘ ^at there’s places whanr little hands 
is thocht muckle o’.” 

There was an incredulous laugh at this. 

‘‘ I wudna wonder, though,” said the mole-catcher, who 
had traveled; ‘‘ there’s some michty queer ideas i’ the big 
toons.” 

“Ye’d better ging to the big toons, then, Sam’l,” suggested 
the merciless Tammas. 

Sam’l woke up. 

“Kitty’s sma’,” he said, with a chuckle, “but she’s an 
auld tid.” 

“ What made ye think o’ speirin’ her, Sam’l?” 

“ I cudna say for sartin,” answered Sam’l, reflectively. “ I 
had nae intention o’t till I saw Pete Proctor after her, an' 
syne, thinks I, I’ll hae her. Ay, ye micht say as Pete was 
the instrument o’ Providence in that case.” 

“ Man, man,” murmured Jamie, who knew Pete, “ Provi- 
dence sometimes mak’s use o’ strange instruments.” 

“ Ye was lang in gettin’ a man yersel’,, Jinny,” said Tam- 
mas to an elderly woman. 

“ Fo we r-an’ -forty year,” replied Jinny. “ It was like a 
stockin’, lang i’ the futin’, but turned at last.” 

“ Lassies nooadays,” said the old woman who smoked, “ is 
partikler by what they used to be. I mind when Jeames 
Gowrie speired me: ‘ Ye wud rither hae Davit Curly, I kin’, 
he says. ‘ I dinna deny’t,’ I says, for the thing was well 
kent, ‘ but ye’ll do vara weel, Jeames,’ says I, an’ mairy him 
I did.” 

“ He was a harmless crittur, Jeames,” said Haggart, “ but 
queer. Ay, he was full o’ maggots.” 

“ Ay,” said Jeames’s widow, “ but though it’s no’ for me 
to say’t, he deid a deacon.” 

“ There’s some rale queer wys o’ speirin’ a wuman,” began 
the mole-catcher. 

“ Vara true, Jamie,” said the stone -breaker. “ I mind 
hoo— ” 

“ There was a chappy ower by Blair,” continued Jamie, 
raising his voice, “ at micht hae been a single man to this day 
if it hadna been for the toothache.” 

“ Ay, man?” 

“ Joey Fargus was the stock’s name. He was oncommon 
troubled wi’ the toothache till he found a cure.” 

“ I didna ken o’ ony cure for sair teeth?” 

“ Joey’s cure was to pour cauld watter stretcht on into his 
mooth for the maiter o’ twa oors, an’ ane day he cam’ into Blair 


14 


WHEN A MAN^S SINGLE. 


an^ found Jess McTaggart (a speerity bit thingy she was — ou, 
she was so) fair greetin^ with sair teeth. Joey advised the 
crittur to try his cure, an^ when he left she was pourin'* the 
watter into her mooth ower the sink. Weel, it so happened ^at 
Joey was in Blair again aboot twa month after, an’ he gies a 
cry in at Willie’s — that’s Jess’s father’s, as ye’ll un’erstan’. 
Ay, then, Jess had haen anither fit o’ the toothache, an’ she 
was hingin’ ower the sink wi’ a tanker o’ watter in her hau’, 
juist as she’d been when he saw her last. ‘ What!’ says Joey, 
wi’ rale consairn, ‘ nae better yet?’ The stock thocht she 
had been haddin’ gaen at the watter a’ thae twa month.” 

‘‘ I call to mind,” the stone-breaker broke in again, hoo 
a body — ” 

So,^’ continued Jamie, Joey cudna help but admire the 
patience o' the lassie, an’ says he, ‘Jess,’ he says, ‘ come oot 
by to Mortar Pits, an’ try oor well.’ That’s hoo Joey Fargus 
speired’s wife, an’ if ye dinna believe’s, ye’ve nae mair to do 
but ging to Mortar Pits an’ see the well yersel’s.” 

“ I recall,” said the stone-breaker, “ a very neat case 
speirin’. It was Jocky Wilkie, him ’at’s brither was grieve to 
Broken Busses, an’ the lass was Leeby Lunan. She was aye 
puttin’ Jocky aff when he was on the point o’speirin’ her, 
keepin’ ’im hingin’ on the hook like a trout, as ye may say, 
an’ takkin’ her fling wi’ ither lads at the same time.” 

“ Ay, I’ve kent them do that.” 

“ Weel, it fair maddened Jocky, so ane nicht he gings to 
her father’s hoose wi’ a present o’ a grand thimble to her in 
his pooch, an’ afore the hale hoosehold he perdooces’t an’ 
flings’ t wi’ a bang on the dresser: ‘ Tak’ it,’ he says to Leeby, 
‘ or leave’t.’ In coorse the thing’s bein’ done sae public-like, 
Leeby kent she had to mak’ up her mind there an’ then. Ay, 
she took it.” 

“ But hoo did ye speir Chirsty yerseP, Dan’l?” asked Jinny 
of the speaker. 

There was a laugh at this, for, as was well known, Dan’l 
had jilted Chirsty. 

“ I never kent I had speired,” replied the stone-breaker, 
“ till Chirsty told me.” 

“ Ye’ll no’ say ye wasna fond o’ her?” 

“ Sometimes I was, an’ syne at other times I was indiffer- 
ent-like. The mair I thocht o’t the mair risky I saw it was, 
so i’ the tail o’ the day I says to Chirsty, says I, ‘ Na, na, 
Chirsty, lat’s be as I am.’ ” 

“ They say she took on terrible, Dan’l.” 

Ay, nae doot; but a man has ’imsel’ to conseeder.” 


WHEN A MAN^S SINGLE. 


15 


By this time they had crossed the moor of whins. It was a 
cold, still evening, and as they paused before climbing down 
into the town they heard the tinkle of a bell. 

“ That’s Snecky’s bell,” said the mole-catcher; what can 
he be cryin’ at this time o’ nicht?” 

“ There’s something far wrang,” said one of the Women. 
“ Look, a’body’s rinnin’ to the square.” 

The troubled look returned to Tammas Haggart’s face, and 
he stepped to look across the fast-darkening moor. 

“ Did ony o’ ye see little Davy Dundas, the saw-miller’s 
bairny?” he began. 

At that moment a young man swept by. His teeth were 
clinched, his eyes glaring. 

“Speak o’ the deil,” said the mole-catcher; “that was 
Rob Angus.” 


CHAPTER II. 

EOB BECOMES EBEE. 

As Haggart hobbled down into the square, in the mole- 
catcher’s rear, Hobart’s cracked bell tinkled up the back 
wynd, and immediately afterward the bellman took his stand 
by the side of Tam Peter’s fish-cart. Snecky gave his audi- 
ence time to gather, for not every day was it given him to cry 
a lost bairn. The words fell slowly from his reluctant lips. 
Before he flung back his head and ejected his proclamation in 
a series of puffs, he was the possessor of exclusive news, but his 
tongue had hardly ceased to roll round the concluding sen- 
tence when the crowd took up the cry themselves. Wives 
flinging open their windows shouted their fears across the 
wynds. Davy Dundas had wandered from the kirk- yard, 
where Rob had left her in Kitty Wilkie’s charge till he re- 
turned from the woods. What had Kitty been about? It 
was believed that the litlin had taken with her a letter that 
had come for Rob. Was Rob back from the woods yet? Ay, 
he had scoured the whole country-side already for her. 

Men gathered on the saw-mill brig, looking perplexedly at 
the burn that swiveled at this point, a sawdust color, between 
wooden boards; but the women pressed their bairns closely to 
their wrappers and gazed in each other’s faces. 

A log of wood, with which some one had sought to impro- 
vise a Are between the bricks that narrowed Rob Angus’s 
grate, turned peevishly to charcoal without casting much light 
on the men and women in the saw-mill kitchen. Already the 


16 


WHEN A MAN S SINGLE. 


burn had been searched near the mill, with Kob’s white facd 
staring at the searchers from his door. 

The room was small and close. A closet-bed with the door 
ojS afforded seats for several persons; and Davit Lunan, the 
tinsmith, who could read Homer with Eob in the original, sat 
clumsily on the dresser. The pendulum of a wag-at-the-wa’ 
clock swung silently against the wall, casting a mouse-like 
shadow on the hearth. Over the mantel-piece was a sampler 
in many colors, the work of Eob’s mother when she was still 
a maid. The bookcase, fitted into a recess that had once held 
a press, was Eob’s own handiwork, and contained more books 
than any other house in Thrums. Overhead, the thick wooden 
rafters were crossed with saws and staves. 

There was a painful silence in the gloomy room. Snecky 
Hobart tried to break the log in the fire-place, using his leg as 
a poker, but desisted when he saw every eye turned on him. 
A glitter of sparks shot up the chimney, and the starling in 
the window began to whistle. Pete Todd looked undecidedly 
at the minister, and, lifting a sack, fiung it over the bird^s 
cage, as if anticipating the worst. In Thrums they veil their 
cages if there is a death in the house. 

“ What do ye mean, Pete Todd?’’ cried Eob Angus, fiercely. 

His voice broke, but he seized the sack and cast it on the 
fioor. The starling, however, whistled no more. 

Looking as if he could strike Pete Todd, Eob stood in the 
center of his kitchen, a saw-miller for the last time. Though 
they did not know it, his neighbors there were photographing 
him in their minds, and their children were destined to gape 
in the days to come over descriptions of Eob Angus in cordu- 
roys. 

These pictures showed a broad-shouldered man of twenty- 
six whose face was already rugged. A short brown beard hid 
the heavy chin, and the lips were locked as if Eob feared to 
show that he was anxious about the child. His clear gray eyes 
were younger looking than his forehead, and the swollen balls 
beneath them suggested a student rather than a working-man. 
His hands were too tanned and hard ever to be white, and he 
delved a little in his walk, as if he felt uncomfortable without 
a weight on his back. He was the best saw-miller in his coun- 
try, but his ambition would have scared his customers had he 
not kept it to himself. Many a time strangers had stared at 
him as he strode along the Whunny road, and wondered what 
made this stalwart man whirl the ax that he had been using 
as a staff. Then Eob was thinking of the man he was going 
to be when he could safely leave little Davy behind him; and 


WHEN A man’s single. 


17 


it waaC^not the firs of the Whunny wood that were in his eye, 
but a roaring city and a saw-miller taking it by the throat. 
There had been a time when he bore no love for the bairn who 
came between him and his career. 

Rob was so tall that he could stand erect in but few rooms 
in Thrums, and long afterward, when very different doors 
opened to him, he still involuntarily ducked, as he crossed the 
threshold, to save his head. Up to the day on which Davy 
wandered from home he had never lifted his hat to a lady; 
when he did that the infiuence of Thrums would be broken 
forever. 

“ It’s oncommon foolish o’ Rob,” said Pete Todd, retreat- 
ing to the side of the mole-catcher, ‘‘ no’ to be mair resigned- 
like.” 

“ It’s his ind’pendence,” answered Jamie; ay, the wricht 
was say in’ the noo, says he, ‘ If Davy’s deid, Rob ’ll mak’ the 
coffin ’imsel’, he’s sae michty ind’pendent. ’ ” 

Tammas Haggart stumbled into the saw-miller’s kitchen. 
It would have been a womanish kind of thing to fiing to the 
door behind him. 

Fine growin’ day, Rob,” he said, deliberately. 

‘‘It is so, Tammas,” answered the saw-miller, hospitably, 
for Haggart had been his father’s bosom friend. 

“ No’ much drowth. I’m thinkin’,” said Hobart, relieved 
by the turn the conversation had taken. 

Tammas pulled from beneath the table an unsteady three- 
legged stool — Davy's stool — and sat down on it slowly. Rob 
took a step nearer, as if to ask him to sit somewhere else, and 
then turned away his head. 

“ Ay, ay,” said Haggart. 

Then, as he saw the others gathering rouna the minister at 
the door, he moved uneasily on his stool. 

“ Whaur’s Davy?” he said. 

“ Did ye no’ ken she was lost?” the saw-miller asked, in a 
voice that was hardly his own. 

“ Ah, I kent,” said Tammas; “ she’s on the Whunny 
road.” 

Rob had been talking to the minister in what both thought 
English, which in Thrums is considered an ostentatious lan- 
guage, Wt he turned on Tammas in broad Scotch. In the 
years to come, when he could wear gloves without concealing 
his hands in his pockets, excitement brought on Scotch as a 
poultice raises blisters. 

“ Tammas Haggart!” he cried, pulling the stone-breaker 
off his stooL 


18 


vmm A MAN^S STTOI®r 


The minister interposed. 

Tell us what you know at once, Tammas,^^ said Mr. Dis- 
hart, who, out of the pulpit, had still a heart. 

It was a sad tale that Haggart had to tell, if a short one, 
and several of the listeners shook their heads as they lieard it. 

I meant to turn the lassieky,^^ the stone-breaker ex- 
plained, ‘‘ but, ou, she was past in a twinklin^'’^ 

On the saw-mill brig the minister organized a search-party, 
the brig that Rob had floored anew but the week before, rising 
daily with the sun to do it because the child's little boot had. 
caught in a worn board. From it she had often crooned to 
watch the dank mill-wheel climbing the bouncing burn. Ah, 
Rob, the rotten old planks would have served your turn. 

“ The Whunny road,’^ were the words passed from mouth 
to mouth, and the driblet of men fell into line. 

Impetuous is youth, and the minister was not perhaps great- 
ly to blame for starting at once. But Lang Tammas, his chief 
elder, paused on the threshold. 

The Lord giveth,^^ he said, solemnly, taking off his hat 
and letting the night air cut through his white hair, and the 
Lord taketh away: blessed be the name of the Lord.^’ 

The saw-miller opened his mouth, but no words came. 

The little search-party took the cold Whunny road. The 
day had been bright and fine, and still there was a smell of 
flowers in the air. The fickle flowers! They had clustered 
round Davy and nestled on her neck when she drew the half- 
ashamed saw-miller through the bleating meadows, and now 
they could smile on him when he came alone — all except the 
daisies. The daisies, that can not play a child false, had 
craned their necks to call Davy back as she tripped over them, 
and bowed their heavy little heads as she toddled on. It was 
from them that the bairn’s track was learned after she wan- 
dered from the Whunny road. 

By and by the hills ceased to echo their wailing response to 
Hobart’s bell. 

Far in the rear of the more eager searchers the bellman and 
the joiner had found a seat on a mossy bank, and others, foot- 
sore and weary, had fallen elsewhere from the ranks. The 
minister and half a dozen others scattered over the fields and 
on the hill-sides, despondent, but not daring to lag. Tinkers 
cowered round their kettles under threatening banks, and the 
squirrels were shadows gliding from tree to tree. 

At a distant smithy a fitful light still winked to the wind, 
but the farm lamps were out and all the land was hushed. It 
was now long past midnight in country parts. 


WHEK A MAK^S SIITGLE. 


19 


Eob Angus was young and strong, but the heaven-sent gift 
of tears was not for him. Blessed be the moaning mother by 
the cradle of her eldest-born, and the maid in tears for the lover 
who went out so brave in the morning and was not at even- 
fall, and the weeping sister who can pray for her soldier 
brother, and the wife on her husband^s bosom. 

Some of his neighbors had thought it unmanly when Kob, 
at the rumble of a cart, hurried from the saw -mill to snatch 
the child in his arms, and bear her to a bed of shavjngs. At 
such a time Davy would lift a saw to within an inch of her 
baby face, and then, letting it fall with a wicked chuckle, run 
to the saw-miller’s arms, as sure of her lover as ever maiden 
was of man. 

A bashful lover he had been, shy, not of Davy, but of what 
men would say, and now the time had come when he looked 
wistfully back to a fevered child tossing in a dark bed, the 
time when a light burned all night in Eob’s kitchen, and a 
trembling, heavy-eyed man sat motionless on a high-backed 
chair. How noiselessly he approached the bonny mite and re- 
placed the arm that had wandered from beneath the coverlet! 
Ah, for the old time when a sick, imperious child told her 
uncle to lie down beside her, and Eob sat on the bed, looking 
shamefacedly at the minister! Mr. Dishart had turned away 
his head. Such things are not to be told. They are between 
a man and his God. 

Far up the Whunny hill they found Davy’s little shoe. Eob 
took it in his hand, a muddy, draggled shoe that had been a 
pretty thing when he put it on her foot that moraing. The 
others gathered austerely around him, and strong Eob stood 
still among the brackens. 

‘‘ I’m dootin’ she’s deid,” said Tammas Haggart. 

Haggart looked into the face of old Eob’s son, and then a 
strange and beautiful thing happened. To the wizened stone- 
breaker it was no longer the somber Whunny hill that lay be- 
fore him. Two barefooted herd-laddies were on the green 
fields of adjoining farms. The moon, looking over the hills, 
found theni on their ragged backs, with the cows munching by 
their side. They had grown different boys, nor known why, 
among the wild roses of red and white, and trampling neck- 
high among the ferns. Haggart saw once again the raspberry- 
bushes they had stripped together into flagons gleaming in the 
grass. Eob had provided the bent pin with which Tammas 
lured his first trout to land, and Tammas in return had invited 
him to thraw the neck of a doomed hen. They had wandered 
hand-in-hand through thirsty grass, when scythes whistled in 


20 WHEK A MAK^S SI1^(JLE. 

the cornfield, and larks trilled overhead and braes were golden 
with broom. 

They are two broad-shouldered men now, and Haggart’s 
back in rounding at the loom. From his broken window he 
can see Rob at the saw-mill, whistling as the wheel goes round. 

It is Saturday night, and they'are in the square, clean and 
dapper, talking with other gallants about lasses. They are 
courting the same maid, and she sits on a stool by the door, 
knitting a stocking, with a lover on each side. They drop in 
on her mother straining the blackberry juice through a bag 
suspended between two chairs. They sheepishly admire while 
Easie singes a hen; for love of her they help her father to pit 
his potatoes; and then, for love of the other, each gives her 
up. It is a Friday night, and from a but and ben around 
which the rabble heave and toss, a dozen couples emerge in 
strangely gay and bright apparel. Rob leads the way with 
one lass, and Tammas follows with another. It must be Rob^s 
wedding-day. 

Dim grow Tammas’s eyes on the AVhunny hill. The years 
whirl by, and already he sees a grumpy grave-digger go out to 
dig Rob’s grave. Alas! for the flash into the past that sorrow 
gives. As he clutches young Rob’s hand the light dies from 
Tammas’s eyes, his back grows round and bent, and the hair 
is silvered that lay in tousled locks on a lad’s he^. 

A nipping wind cut the search-party and fled down the hill 
that was changing in color from black to gray. The searchers 
might have been smugglers laden with whisky-bladders, such 
as haunted the mountain in by-gone days. Far away at 
Thrums mothers still wrung their hands for Davy, but the 
men slept. 

Heads were bared, and the minister raised his voice in ^ 
prayer. One of the psalms of David trembled in the gi’ay of 
the morning straight to heaven; and then two young men, 
glancing at Mr. Dishart, raised aloft a fallen rowan-tree, to 
let it fall as it listed. It fell pointing straight down the hill, 
and the search-party took that direction — all but Rob, who 
stood motionless, with the shoe in his hand. He did not seem 
to comprehend the minister’s beckoning. 

Haggart took him by the arm. 

“ Rob, man, Rob Angus,” he said, ‘‘ she was but fewer 
years auld.” 

The stone-breaker unbuttoned his trousers-pocket, and with 
an unsteady hand drew out his snuff-mull. Rob tried to take 
it, but his arm trembled, and the mull fell among the heather. 

‘‘ Keep yourselves from idols,” said Lang Tammas, sternly. 


WSEl^ A man’s single. 


n 


But the minister was young, and children lisped his name 
at the white manse among the trees at home. He took the 
shoe from the saw-miller, who had once been independent, and 
they went down the hill together, 

Davy lay dead at the edge of the burn that gurgles on to the 
saw-mill, one little foot washed by the stream. The Whunny 
had rocked her to sleep for the last time. Half covered with 
grass, her baby fist still clutched the letter. When Eob saw 
her, he took his darling dead bairn in his arms and faced the 
others with cracking jaws. 

“ 1 dinna ken,’^ said Tammas Haggart, after a pause, but 
what it’s kind o^ natural!” 


CHAPTEE III. 

ROB GOES OUT INTO THE WORLD. 

One evening, nearly a month after Eob Angus became 
“ single,” Mr. George Frederick Licquorish, editor and pro- 
prietor of the Silchester Mirror, was sitting in his office cut- 
ting advertisements out of the Silchester Argus, and pasting 
each on a separate sheet of paper. These advertisements had 
not been sent to the Mirror, and, as he thought this a pity, 
he meant, through his canvasser, to call the attention of the 
advertisers to the omission. 

Mr. Licquorish was a stout little man, with a benevolent 
countenance, who wrote most of his leaders on the backs of 
old envelopes. Every few minutes he darted into the com- 
posing-room, with an alertness that was a libel on his genial 
face; and when he returned it was pleasant to observe the 
kindly, good-natured manner in which he chaffed the printer’s 
devil who was trying to light the fire. It was, however, also 
noticeable that what the devil said subsequently to another 
devil was, “ But, you know, he wouldn’t give me any sticks.” 

The Mirror and the Argus are two daily newspapers pub- 
lished in Silchester, each of which has the largest circulation 
in the district, and is therefore much the better advertising 
medium. Silchester is the chief town of an English midland 
county, and the Mirror’s business note-paper refers to it as the 
center of a population of half a million souls. 

The Mirror’s offices are nearly crushed out of sight in a 
block of buildings left in the middle of a street for town coun- 
cils to pull down gradually. This island of houses, against 
which a sea of humanity beats daily, is cut in two by a narrow 
passage, off which several doors open. One of these leads up 


22 


WHEN A man’s single. 


a dirty stair to the editorial and composing-rooms of the Daily 
Mirror, and down a dirty stair to its printing-rooms. It is 
the door at which you may hammer for an hour without any 
one^s paying the least attention. 

During the time the boy took to light Mr. Licquorish’s fire, 
a young man in a heavy overcoat knocked more than once at 
the door in the alley, and then moved oft as if somewhat re- 
lieved that there was no response. He walked round and 
round the block of buildings, gazing upward at the windows' 
of the composing-room; and several times he ran against other 
pedestrians, on whom he turned fiercely, and would then have 
begged their pardons had he known what to say. Frequently 
he felt in his pocket to see if his money was still there, and 
once he went behind a door and counted it. There were three 
pounds seventeen shillings altogether, and he kept it in a linen 
bag that had been originally made for carrying worms in when 
he went fishing. When he re-entered the close he always drew 
a deep breath, and if any persons emerged from the Mirror 
ofiice he looked after them. They were mostly telegraph 
boys, who fiuttered out and in. 

When Mr. Licquorish dictated an article, as he did frequent- 
ly, the apprentice reporter went mto the editor’s room to take 
it down, and the reporters always asked him, as a favor, to 
shut George Frederick’s door behind him. This apprentice 
reporter did the police reports and the magazine notices, and 
he wondered a good deal whether the older reporters really did 
like brandy and soda. The reason why John Milton, which 
was the unfortunate name of this boy, was told to close the 
editorial door behind him was, that it was close to the door of 
the reporters’ room, and generally stood open. The impres- 
sion the reporters’ room made on- a chance visitor varied ac- 
cording as Mr. Licquorish’ s door was ajar or shut. When they 
heard it locked on the inside, the reporters and the subeditor 
breathed a sigh of relief; when it opened, they took their legs 
oft the desk. 

The editor’s room had a carpet, and was chiefly furnished 
with books sent in for review. It was more comfortable but 
more gloomy-looking than the reporters’ room, which had a 
long desk running along one side of it, and a bunk for holding 
coals and old newspapers on the other side. The floor was so 
littered with papers, many of them still in their wrappers, 
that, on his way ^between liis seat and the door, the reporter 
generally kicked' one or more into the bunk. It was in this 
way, unless an apprentice happened to be otherwise disengaged, 
that the floor was swept. 


WHEN A MAN^S SINGLE. 


23 


In this room were a reference library and an old coat. The 
library was within reach of the subeditor’s hand, and con- 
tained some fifty books, which the literary staff could consult 
with the conviction that they would find the page they wanted 
missing. The coat had hung unbrushed on a nail for many 
years, and was so thick with dust that John Milton could 
draw pictures on it with his finger. According to legend, it 
was the coat of a distinguished novelist, who had once been a 
reporter on the Mirror, and had left Silchester unostenta- 
tiously by his window. 

It was Penny, the foreman in the composing-room, who set 
the literary staff talking about the new reporter. Penny was 
a lank, loosely jointed man of forty, who shuffled about the 
oflftce in slippers, ruled the compositors with a loud voice and 
a blustering manner, and was believed to be in Mr. Licquor- 
ish’s confidence. His politics were respect for the House of 
Lords, because it rose early, enabling him to have it set before 
supper-time. 

The foreman slithered so quickly from one room to another 
that he was at the subeditor’s elbow before his own door had 
time to shut. There was some copy in his hand, and he flung 
it contemptuously upon the desk. 

‘‘ Look here, mister,” he said, flinging the copy upon the 
subeditor’s desk, “ I don’t want that.” 

The subeditor was twisted into as little space as possible, 
tearing telegrams open and flinging the envelopes aside, much 
as a housewife shells peas. His name was Protheroe, and the 
busier he was the more he twisted himself. On Budget nights 
he was a knot. He did voluntarily so much extra work that 
Mr. Licquorish often thought he gave him too high wages; 
and on slack nights he smiled to himself, which showed that 
something pleased him. It was rather curious that this some- 
thing should have been himself. 

‘‘ But — but,” cried Protheroe, all in a flutter, it’s town 
council meeting; it — it must be set, Mr. Penny.” 

Very well, mister; then that special from Birmingham 
must be slaughtered.” 

No, no Mr. Penny; why, that’s a speech by Bright.” 

Penny sneered at the subeditor, and flung up his arms to 
imply that he washed his hands of the whole thing, as he had 
done every night for the last ten years when there was a 
pressure on his space. Protheroe had been there for half of 
that time, yet he still trembled before the autocrat of the 
office. 


24 


WHEN A MAN^S SINGLE. 

“ There’s enough copy on the board/’ said Penny, ‘‘ to fill 
the paper. Any more specials coming in?” 

He asked this fiercely, as if of opinion that the subeditor 
arranged with leading statesmen nightly to flood the compos- 
ing-room of the Mirror with speeches, and Protheroe replied 
abjectly, as if he had been caught doing it, “ Lord John Man- 
ners is speaking to-night at Nottingham.” 

The foreman dashed his hand upon the desk. 

“ Go it, mister, go it,” he cried; “ anything else? Tell me 
Gladstone’s dead next.” 

Sometimes about two o’clock in the morning Penny would 
get sociable, and the subeditor was always glSi to respond. 
On those occasions they talked with bated breath oi the 
amount of copy that would come in should anything happen 
to Mr. Gladstone; and the subeditor, if he was in a despondent 
mood, predicted that it would occur at midnight. Thinking 
of this had made him a Conservative. 

Nothing so bad as that,” he said, dwelling on the sub- 
ject, to show the foreman that they might be worse off; ‘‘ but 
there’s a column of local coming in, and a concert in the Peo- 
ple’s Hall, and—” 

And you expect me to set all that?” the foreman broke 
in. Why, the half of that local should have been set by 
seven o’clock, and here I’ve only got the beginning of the 
town council yet. It’s ridiculous.” 

Protheroe looked timidly toward the only reporter present, 
and then apologetically toward Penny for having looked at the 
reporter. 

^‘ The stuff must be behind,” growled Tomlinson, nick- 
named Umbrage, ‘‘ as long as we’re a man short.” 

Umbrage was very short and stout, with a big moon face, 
and always wore his coat unbuttoned. In the streets, if he 
was walMng fast and there was a breeze, his coat-tails seemed 
to be running after him. He squinted a little, from a habit 
he had of looking sidewise at public meeting to see if the audi- 
ence were gazing at him. He was Juvenal ” in the Mirror 
on Friday mornings, and headed his column of local gossip 
which had that signature, “Now step I forth to whip hypoc- 
risy.” 

“ I wonder,” said the subeditor, with an insinuating glance 
at the foreman, “ if the new man is expected to-night.” 

Mr. Licquorish had told him that this was so an hour be- 
fore, but the cunning bred of fear advised him to give Penny 
the opportunity of divulging the news. 

. That worthy smiled to himself, m any man has a right to 


vrsm A sikglb. 25 

do who has been told something in confidence by his em- 
ployer. 

“ He’s a Yorkshireman, I believe/’ continued the crafty 
Protheroe. 

“That’s all you know,” said the foreman, first glancing 
back to see if Mr. Licquorish’s door was shut. “ Mr. George 
Frederick has told me all about him; he’s a Scotsman called 
Angus, that’s never been out of his native county.” 

“ He’s one of those compositors taken to literature, is he?” 
asked Umbrage, who by literature meant reporting, pausing 
in the middle of a sentence he was transcribing from ms note- 
book. “ Just as I expected,” he added, contemptuously. 

“ No,” said the foreman, thawing in the rays of such igno- 
rance; “ Mr. George Frederick says he’s never been on a news- 
paper before.” 

“ An outsider!” cried Umbrage, in the voice with which 
outsiders themselves would speak of reptiles. “ They are the 
ruin of the profession, they are.” 

“ He’ll make you all sit up, mister,” said Penny, with a 
chuckle. “ Mr. George Frederick has had his eye on him for 
a twelvemonth.” 

“ I don’t suppose you know how Mr. George Frederick fell 
in with him?” said the subeditor, basking in Penny’s geniality. 

“ Mr. George Frederick told me every think about him — 
every think,” said the foreman, proudly. “ It was a parson 
that recommended him.” 

“A parson!” ejaculated CTmbrage, in such a tone that if 
you had not caught the word you might have thought he was 
saying, “ An outsider!” again. 

“Yes, a parson whose sermon this Angus took down in 
short-hand, I fancy.” 

“ What was he doing taking down a sermon?” 

“ I suppose he was there to hear it.” 

“ And this is the kind of man who is taking to literature 
nowadays!” Umbrage cried. 

“ Oh, Mr. George Frederick has heard a great deal about 
him,” continued Penny, maliciously, “ and expects him to do 
wonders. He’s a self-made man.” 

“ Oh,” said Umbrage, who could find nothing to object to 
in that, having risen from comparative obscurity himself. 

“ Mr. George Frederick,” Penny went on, “ offered him 
a berth here before Billy Tagg was engaged, but he couldn’t 
come.” 

“ I suppose,” said Juvenal, with the sarcasm that made 


26 


WHEN A man’s single. 


him terrible on Fridays, ‘‘ the Times offered him something 
better, or was it the Spectator that wanted an editor?’’ 

‘‘No, it was family matters. His mother or his sister, or 
— let me see, it was his sister’s child — was dependent on him, 
and could not he left. Something happened to her, though. 
She’s dead, I think, so he’s a free man now.” 

“ Yes, it was his sister’s child, and she was found dead,” 
said the subeditor, “on a mountain-side, curiously enough, 
with George Frederick’s letter in her hand offering Angus the 
appointment.” 

Protheroe was foolish to admit that he knew this, for it was 
news to the foreman, but it tries a man severely to have to 
listen to news that he could tell better himself. One immediate 
result of the subeditor’s rashness was that Rob Angus sunk 
several stages in Penny’s estimation. 

“ I dare say he’ll turn out a muff,’*’ he said, and flung out 
of the room, with another intimation that the copy must be 
cut down. 

The evening wore on. Protheroe had half a dozen things to 
do at once, and did them. 

Telegraph boys were dropping the beginning of Lord John 
Manners’s speech through a grating on to the subeditorial 
desk long before he had reached the end of it at Nottingham. 

The subeditor had to revise this as it arrived in flimsy, and 
write a summary of it at the same time. His summary was 
set before all the speech had reached the office, which may 
seem strange. But when Penny cried aloud for summary, so 
that he might get that column off his hands, Protheroe made 
guesses at many things, and, risking, “ the right hon. gentle- 
man concluded his speech, which was attentively listened to 
with some further references to current topics,” flung Lord 
John to the boy, who rushed with him to Penny, from whose 
hand he was snatched by a compositor. Fifteen minutes 
afterward Lord John concluded his speech at Nottingham. 

About half past nine Protheroe seized his hat and rushed 
home for supper. In the passage he nearly knocked himself 
over by running against the young man in the big top-coat. 
Umbrage went out to see if he could gather any information 
about a prize-flght. John Milton came in with a notice of a 
concert, which he stuck conspicuously on the chief reporter’s 
file. When the chief reporter came in he glanced through it 
and made a few alterations, changing “ Mr. Joseph Gi*imes 
sung out of tune,” for instance, to “ Mr. Grimes, the favorite 
vocalist, was in excellent voice.” The concert was not quite 


WHEN A man’s single. 27 

over yet, either; they seldom waited for the end of anything 
on the Mirror, 

When Umbrage returned, Billy Kirker, the chief reporter, 
was denouncing John Milton for not being able to tell him 
how to spell ‘‘ deceive.’’ 

What is the use of you,” he asked, indignantly, ‘‘ if you 
can’t do a simple thing like that?” 

“ Say ‘ cheat,’ ” suggested Umbrage. 

So Kirker wrote ‘‘ cheat.” Though he was the chief of the 
Mirror^ s reporting department, he had only Umbrage and 
J ohn Milton at present under him. 

As Kirker sat in the reporters’ room looking over his diary, 
with a cigarette in his mouth, he was an advertisement for the 
Mirror, and if he paid for his velvet coat out of his salary, the 
paper was in a healthy financial condition. He was tall, 
twenty-two years of age, and extremely slight. His manner 
was languid, though his language was sometimes forcible; but 
those who knew him did not think him mild. This evening 
his fingers looked bare without the diamond ring that some- 
times horned them. This ring, it was noticed, generally dis- 
appeared about the middle of the month, and his scarf-pin fol- 
lowed K by the twenty-first. With the beginning of the 
month they reappeared together. The literary staff was paid 
monthly. 

Mr. Licquorish looked in at the door of the reporters’ room 
to ask pleasantly if they would not like a fire. Had Protheroe 
been there he would have said ‘‘No;’’ but Billy Kirker said 
“Yes.” Mr. Licquorish had thought that Protheroe was 
there. 

This was the first fire in the reporters’ room that season, 
and it smoked. Kirker, left alone, flung up the window, and 
gradually became aware that some one with a heavy tread 
was walking up and down the alley. He whistled gently in 
case it should be a friend of his own, but, getting no response, 
resumed his work. Mr. Licquorish also heard the footsteps, 
but though he was waiting for the new reporter, he did not 
connect him with the man outside. 

Eob had stopped at the door a score of times, and then 
turned away. He had arrived at Silchester in the afternoon, 
and come straight to the Mirror office to look at it. Then he 
had set out in quest of lodgings, and having got them, had re- 
turned to the passage. He was not naturally a man crushed 
by a sense of his own unworthiness, but, looking up at these 
windows and at the shadows that passed thefii every moment, 
he felt far away from his saw-mill. What a romance to him. 


28 


WHEK A man’s single. 


too, was in the glare of the gas in the Mirror bill that was 
being reduced to pulp on the wall at the mouth of the close! 
It had begun to rain heavily, but he did not feel the want of 
an umbrella, never having, possessed one in Thrums. 

Fighting down the emotions that had mastered him so 
often, he turned once more to the door, and as he knocked 
more loudly than formerly, a compositor came out, who told 
him what to do if he was there on business. 

‘‘ Go upstairs, he said, ‘‘ till you come to a door, and then 
kick. 

Rob did not have to kick, however, for he met Mr. Licquor- 
ish coming down- stairs, and both half stopped. 

“ l^t Mr. Angus, is it?^’ asked Mr. Licquorish. 

Ye*s,’^ said the new reporter, the monosyllable also telling 
that he was a Scotsman, and that he did not feel comfortable. 

Mr. Licquorish shook him warmly by the hand, and took 
him into the editor’s room. Rob sat in a chair there with his 
hat in his hand, while his new employer spoke kindly to him 
about the work that would begin on the morrow. 

“ You will find it a little strange at first,” he said; ‘‘ but 
Mr. Kirker, the head of our reporting staff, has been instruct- 
ed to explain the routine of the office to you, and I have no 
doubt we shall work well together.” 

Rob said he meant to do his best. 

“It is our desire, Mr. Angus,” continued Mr. Licquorish, 
“ to place every facility before our staff, and if you have sug- 
gestions to make at any time on any matter connected with 
your work we shall be most happy to consider them and to 
meet you in a cordial spirit.” 

While Rob was thanking Mr. Licquorish for his considera- 
tion, Kirker in the next room was wondering whether the new 
reporter was to have half a crown a week less than his prede- 
cessor, who had begun with six pounds a month. 

“ It is pleasant to us,” Mr. Licquorish concluded, referring 
to the novelist, “ to know that we have sent out from this 
office a number of men who subsequently took a high place in 
literature. Perhaps our system of encouraging talent by foster- 
ing it has had something to do with this, for we like to give 
every one his opportunity to rise. I hope the day will come, 
Mr. Angus, when we shall be able to recall with pride the fact 
that you began your literary career on the i/frror.” 

Rob said he hoped so too. He had, indeed, very little doubt 
of it. At this period of his career it made him turn white to 
think that he might not yet be famous. 

“ But I must not keep you here any longer,” said the editor. 


WHEN A MAN^S SINGLE. 

rising, for you have had a weary journey, and must be feel- 
ing tired. We shall see you at ten o’clock to-morrow.” 

Once more Rob and his employer shook hands heartily. 

‘‘ But I might introduce you,” said Mr. Licquorish, ‘‘ to 
the reporting-room. Mr. Kirker, our chief, is, I think, here.” 

Rob had begun to descend the stairs, but he turned back. 
He was not certain what you did when you were introduced to 
any one, such formalities being unknown in Thrums; but he 
held himself in reserve to do as the other did. 

“ Ah, Mr. Kirker,” said the editor, pushing open the door 
of the reporting- room with his foot, ‘‘ this is Mr. Angus, who 
has just joined our literary staff.” 

Nodding genially to both, Mr. Licquorish darted out of the 
room; but before the door had finished its swing Mr. Kirker 
was aware that the new reporter’s nails had a rim of black. 

‘‘ What do you think of George Frederick?” asked the 
chief, after he had pointed out to Rob the only chair that such 
a stalwart reporter might safely sit on. 

“ He was very pleasant,” said Rob. 

“ Yes,” said Billy Kirker, thoughtfully, ** there’s nothing 
George Frederick wouldn’t do for any one if it could be done 
gratis.” 

“ And he struck me as an enterprising sort of man.” 

“ ‘ Enterprise without outlay,’ is the motto of this office,” 
said the chief. 

“ But the paper seems to be well conducted,” said Rob, a 
little crestfallen. 

The worst conducted in England,” said Kirker, cheer- 
fully. 

Rob asked how the Mirror compared with the Argus. 

‘‘ They have six reporters to our three,” said Kirker, ‘‘ but 
we do double work and beat them.” 

‘‘ I suppose there is a great deal of rivalry between the staffs 
of the two papers?” Rob asked, for he had read of such 
things. 

‘‘ Oh, no,” said Kirker, we help each other. For in- 
stance, if Daddy Walsh, the Argus chief, is drunk, I help 
him; and if I’m drunk, he helps me. I’m going down to the 
Frying Pan to see him now.” 

‘‘ The Frying Pan?” echoed Rob. 

‘‘ It’s a literary club,” Kirker explained, and very exclu- 
sive. If you come with me I’ll introduce you.” 

Rob was somewhat taken aback at what he had heard, but 
he wanted to be on good terms with his fellow-workers. 


30 


WHEN A man’s single. 


‘‘ Not to-night/’ he said. ‘‘ I think I’d better be getting 
home now.” 

Kirker lighted another cigarette, and saying he would ex- 
pect Eob at the office next morning, strolled off. The new 
reporter was undecided whether to follow him at once, or to 
wait for Mr. Licquorish’s reappearance. He was looking round 
the office curiously, when the door opened and Kirker put his 
head in. 

By the bye, old chap,” he said, could you lend me five 
bob?” 

“Yes, yes,” said the new reporter. 

He had to undo the string of his money-bag, but the chief 
was too fine a gentleman to smile. 

“ Thanks, old man,” Kirker said, carelessly, and again 
withdrew. 

The door of the editor’s room was open as Eob passed. 

“ Ah, Mr. Angus,” said Mr. Licquorish, “ here are a num- 
ber of books for review; you might do a short notice of some 
of them.” 

He handed Eob the two works that happened to lie upper- 
most, and the new reporter slipped them into his pockets with 
a certain elation. The night was dark and wet, but he lighted 
his pipe and hurried up the muddy streets to the single room 
that was now his home. Probably his were the only lodgings 
in his street that had not the portrait of a young lady on the 
mantel-piece. On his way he passed three noisy young men. 
They were Kirker and two reporters on the Argus trying 
which could fling his hat highest in the rain. 

Sitting in his lonely room, Eob examined his books with in- 
terest. One of them was Tennyson’s new volume of poems, 
and a month afterward the poet-laureate’s publishers made 
Eob march up the streets of Silchester with his chest well for- 
ward by advertising “ The Silchester Mirror says, ‘ This ad- 
mirable volume.’ ” After all, the great delight of being on 
the press is that you can patronize the Tennysons. Doubtless 
the poet-laureate got a marked copy of Eob’s first review for- 
warded him, and had an anxious moment till he saw that it 
was favorable. There had been a time when even John Milton 
felt a thrill pass through him as he saw Messrs. Besant and 
Eice boasting that he thought their “ Chaplain of the Fleet ” 
a novel of sustained interest, “ which we have read without 
fatigue.” 

Eob sat over his empty grate far on into the night, his mind 
in a jumble. As he grew more composed, the Mivror and its 
staff sunk out of sight, and he was carrying a dead child in his 


WHEN A man’s SINGI;!!. ''81 

arms along the leafy Whunny road. His mouth twitched, 
and his head dropped. He was preparing to go to bed, when 
he sat down again to look at the other book. It was a novel 
hy‘‘M.’^ in one thin volume, and Eob thought the title, 
‘^The Scorn of Scorns,’^ foolish. He meant to write an hon- 
est criticism of it, but never having reviewed a book before, 
he rather hoped that this would be a poor one, which he could 
condemn brilliantly. Poor Eob! he came to think more of 
that book by and by. 

At last Eob wound up the big watch that neighbors had 
come to gaze at when his father bought it of a peddler forty 
years before, and took off the old silver chain that he wore 
round his neck. He went down on his knees to say his pray- 
ers, and then, remembering that he had said them already, he 
rose up and went to bed. 


CHAPTEE IV. 

“the scorn of scorns.” 

St. Leonard’s Lodge is the residence of Mr. William Mer- 
edith, an ex-mayor of Silchester, and stands in the fashionable 
suburb of the town. There was at one- time considerable in- 
tercourse between this house and Dome Castle, the seat of 
Colonel Abinger, though they are five miles apart and in differ- 
ent countries; and one day, after Eob had been on the press 
for a few months, two boys set out from the castle to show 
themselves to Nell Meredith. They could have reached the 
high-road by a private walk between a beech and an ivy hedge, 
but they preferred to climb down a steep path to the wild- 
running Dome. The advantage of this route was that they 
risked their necks by taking it. 

Nell, who did not expect visitors, was sitting by the fire in 
her boudoir dreaming. It was the room in which she and 
Mary Abinger had often discussed such great questions as 
Woman, her Aims, her Influence; Man, his Instability, his 
Weakness, his Degeneration; the Poor, How we are to Help 
Them; why Lady Lucy Gilding wears Pink when Blue is ob- 
viously her Color. 

Nell was tucked away into a soft arm-chair, in which her 
father never saw her without wondering that such a little thing 
should require eighteen yards for a dress. 

“ I’m not so little,” she would say on these occasions, and 
then Mr. Meredith chuckled, for he knew that there were 
young men who considered his Nell tall and terrible. He liked 


33 


WHEN A man’s single. 


to watch her sweeping through a room. To him the boudoir 
was a sea of reefs. Nell’s dignity when she was introduced to 
a young gentleman was another thing her father could never 
look upon without awe, but he also noticed that it soon wore 
off. 

On the mantel-piece lay a comb and several hair-pins. 
There are few more mysterious things than hair-pins. So far 
back as we can go into the past we see women putting up 
their hair. It is said that married men lose their awe of hair- 
pins and clean their pipes with them. 

A pair of curling-tongs had a chair to themselves near Nell, 
and she wore a short blue dressing-jacket. Probably when 
she woke from her reverie she meant to do something to her 
brown hair. When old gentlemen called at the Lodge they 
frequently told their host that he had a very pretty daughter; 
when younger gentlemen called they generally called again, 
and if Nell thought they admired her the first time, she 
spared no pains to make them admire her still more the next 
time. This was to make them respect their own judgment. 

It was little Will Abinger who had set Nell a-dreaming, for 
from wondering if he was home yet for the Christmas holidays 
her thoughts wandered to his sister Mary, and then to his 
brother Dick. She thought longer of Dick in his lonely Lon- 
don chambers than of the others, and by and by she was say- 
ing to herself petulantly, ‘‘ I wish people wouldn’t go dying 
and leaving me money.” • Mr. Meredith, and still more Mrs. 
Meredith, thought that their only daughter, an heiress, would 
be thrown away on Eichard Abinger, barrister at law, whose 
blood was much bluer than theirs, but who was, nevertheless, 
understood to be as hard up as his father. 

The door-bell rang, and two callers were ushered into the 
drawing-room without Nell’s knowing it. One of them left 
his companion to talk to Mr. Meredith, and clattered upstairs 
in search of the daughter of the house. He was a bright-faced 
boy of thirteen, with a passion for flinging stones, and of late 
he had worn his head in the air, not because he was conceited, 
but that he might look with admiration upon the face of the 
young gentleman down-stairs. 

Bouncing into the parlor, he caught sight of the object of 
his search before she could turn her head. 

“Isay, Nell, I’m back.” 

Miss Meredith jumped from her chair. 

“Will!” she cried. 

When the visitor saw this young lady coming toward him 


WHEN- A MAN^S SINGLE. 


33 


quickly, he knew what she was after, and tried to get out of 
her way. But Nell kissed him. 

‘‘ Now, then,’’ he said, indignantly, pushing her from him. 

Will looked round him fearfully, and then closed the door. 

“You might have waited till the door was shut, at any 
rate,” he grumbled. “ It would have been a nice thing if any 
one had seen you!” 

“ Why, what would it have mattered, you horrid little 
boy?” said Nell. 

“Little boy! I’m bigger than you, at any rate. As for 
its not mattering — but you don’t know who is down-stairs. The 
captain — ” 

“ Captain!” cried Nell. 

She seized her curling-tongs. 

“ Yes,” said Will, watching the effect of his words, “ Grey- 
brooke, the captain of the school. He is giving me a week 
just now.” 

Will said this as proudly as if his guest were Napoleon Bona- 
parte, but Nell laid down her curling-irons. The intruder in- 
terpreted her action and resented it. 

“ You’re not his style,” he said; “ he likes bigger women.” 

“ Oh, does he?” said Nell, screwing up her little Greek 
nose contemptuously. 

“ He’s eighteen,” said Will. 

“ A mere school-boy.” 

“Why, he shaves.” 

“ Doesn’t the master whip him for that?” 

“ What? Whip Greybrooke!” 

Will laughed hysterically. 

“You should just see him at breakfast with old Jerry. 
Why, I’ve seen him myself, when half a dozen of us were 
asked to tea by Mrs. Jerry, and though we were frightened to 
open our mouths, what do you think Greybrooke did?” 

“ Something silly, I should say.” 

“ He asked old Jerry, as cool as you like, to pass the but- 
ter! That’s the sort of fellow Greybrooke is.” 

“ How is Mary?” 

“ Oh, she’s all right. No, she has a headache. I say, 
Greybrooke says Mary’s rather slow.” 

“ He must be a horror,” said Nell, “ and I don’t see why 
you brought him here.” 

“ I thought you would like to see him,” explained Will. 
“ He made a hundred and three against Kugby, and was only 
bowled off his pads.” 

it 


34 


WHEN A man’s single. 


‘‘ Well/’ said Nell, yawning, “ I suppose I must go down 
and meet your prodigy.’’ 

Will, misunderstanding, got between her and the door. 

‘‘You’re not going down like that,” he said, anxiously, 
with a wave of his hand that included the dressing- jacket and 
the untidy hair. “ Greybrooke’s so particular, and I told him 
you were a jolly girl. ” 

“ What else did you tell him?” asked Nell, suspiciously. 

“Not much,” said Will, with a guilty look. 

“ I know you told him something else?” 

“ I told him you — you were fond of kissing people.” 

“ Oh, you nasty boy, Will — as if kissing a child like you 
counted !’ ’ 

“Never mind,” said Will, soothingly; “ Greybrooke’s not 
the fellow to tell tales. Besides, I know you girls can’t help 
it. Mary’s just the same.” 

“You are a goose. Will, and the day will come when you’ll 
give anything for a kiss.’’’ 

“ You’ve no right to bring such charges against a fellow,” . 
said Will, indignantly, strutting to the door. 

Half-way down-stairs he turned and came back. 

“ 1 say, Nell,” he said, “ you — ^you, when you come down, 
you won’t kiss Greybrooke?” 

Nell drew herself up in a way that would have scared any 
young man but Will. 

“ He’s so awfully particular,” Will continued, apologeti- 
cally. 

“ Was it to tell me this you came upstairs?” 

“No, honor bright, it wasn’t. I only came up in case 
you should want to kiss me, and to — to have it over.” 

Nell was standing near Will, and before he could jump back 
she slapped his face. 

The snow was dancing outside in a light wind when Nell 
sailed into the drawing-room. She could probably still inform 
you how she was dressed, but that evening Will and the captain 
could not tell Mary. The captain thought it was a reddish 
dress, or else blue, but it was all in squares, like a draught- 
board, according to Will. Forty minutes had elapsed since 
Will visited her upstairs, and now he smiled at the conceit 
which made her think that the captain would succumb to a 
pretty frock. Of course Nell had no such thought. She al- 
ways dressed carefully because — well, because there is never 
any saying. 

Though Miss Meredith froze Greybrooke with a glance, he 
was relieved to see her. Her mother had discovered that she 


WHEN A man’s single. 


Sb 

knew the lady who married his brother, and h»d asked ques- 
tions about the baby. He did not like it. These, he thought, 
were things you should pretend not to know about. He had 
contrived to keep his nieces and nephews dark from the fel- 
lows at school, though most of them would have been too just 
to attach any blame to him. Of this baby he was specially 
ashamed, because they had called it after him. 

Mrs. Meredith was a small, stout lady, of whose' cleverness 
her husband spoke proudly to Nell, but never to herself. 
When Nell told her how he had talked, she exclaimed, “ Non- 
sense!’’ and then waited to hear what else he had said. She 
loved him, but probably no woman can live with a man for 
many years without having an indulgent contempt for him, 
and wondering how he is considered a good man of business. 
Mrs. Meredith, who was a terribly active woman, was glad to 
leave the entertainment of her visitors to Nell, and that young 
lady began severely by asking, ‘‘ How do you boys mean to 
amuse yourselves?” 

‘‘ Do you keep rabbits?” she said to the captain, sweetly. 

‘‘ I say, Nell!” cried Will, warningly. 

“ I have not kept rabbits,” Greybrooke replied, with simple 
dignity, since I was a boy.” 

‘‘I told you,” said Will, ‘‘ that Greybrooke was old — why, 
he’s nearly as old as yourself. She’s older than she looks, 
you know, Greybrooke. ” 

The captain was gazing at Nell with intense admiration. 
As she raised her head indignantly he thought she was looking 
to him for protection. That was a way Nell had. 

‘5 Abinger,” said the captain, sternly, ‘‘ shut up. Don’t 
mind him. Miss Meredith,” he continued; ‘‘ he doesn’t un- 
derstand girls.” 

To tliink he understands girls is the last affront a youth 
pays them. When he ceases trying to reduce them to fixed 
principles he has come of age. Nell, knowing this, felt sorry 
for Greybrooke, for she foresaw what he would have to go 
through. Her manner to him underwent such a change that 
he began to have a high opinion of himself. This is often 
called falling in love. Will was satisfied that his friend im- 
pressed Nell, and he admired Greybrooke’s politeness to a chit 
of a girl, but he became restless. His eyes wandered to the 
piano, and he had a lurking fear that Nell would play some- 
thing. He signed to the captain to get up. 

“We’ll have to be going now,” he said at last; ‘‘good- 
bye.” 


36 


WHEI?- A man’s single. 


Greybrooke glared at Will, forgetting that they had ar- 
ranged beforehand to stay as short a time as possible. 

“ Perhaps you have other calls to make?” said Nell, who 
had no desire to keep them there longer than they cared to 
stay. 

Oh, yes,” said Will. 

“No,” said the captain, “ we only came into Silchester 
with Miss Abinger’s message for you?” 

“Why, Will,” exclaimed Nell, “you never gave me any 
message.” 

“ I forgot what it was,” Will explained, cheerily; “ some- 
thing about a ribbon, I think.” 

“ I did not hear the message given,” the captain said, in 
answer to Nell’s look, “ but Miss Abinger had a headache, and 
I think Will said it had to do with that.” 

“ Oh, wait a bit,” said Will; “ I remember something about 
it now. Mary saw something in a Silchester paper, the Mir- 
ror, I think, that made her cry, and she thinks that if you 
saw it you would cry too. So she wants you to look at it.” 

“ The idea of Mary’s crying!” said Nell, indignantly. 
“But did she not give you a note?” 

“ She was too much upset,” said Will, signing to the cap- 
tain not to let on that they had refused to wait for the note. 

“ I w^onder what it can be,” murmured Nell. 

She hurried from the room to her father’s den, and found 
him there surrounded by newspapers. 

“ Is there anything in the Mirror, father?” she asked. 

“ Nothing,” said Mr. Meredith, who had made the same 
answer to this question many hundreds of times, “ nothing 
except depression in the boot trade.” 

“ It can’t be that,” said Nell. 

“ Can’t be what?” 

“ Oh, give me the paper,” cried the ex-mayor’s daughter, 
impatiently. 

She looked hastily up and down it, with an involuntary 
glance at the births, deaths, and marriages, turned it inside 
out and outside in, and then exclaimed, “Oh!” Mr. Mere- 
dith, who was too much accustomed to his daughter’s im- 
pulses to think that there was much wrong, listened patiently 
while she ejaculated, “ Horrid!” “ What a shame!” “ Oh, 
I wish I was a man!” and, “ Well, I can’t understand it.” 
AVhen she tossed the paper to the floor, her face was red and 
her body trembled with excitement. 

“ What is it, Nellie?” asked her father. 

Whether Miss Abinger cried over the Mirror that day is no^ 


WEEK A man’s single. 


to be known, but there were indignant tears in Nell’s eyes as 
she ran upstairs to her bedroom. Mr. Meredith took up the 
paper and examined it carefully at the place where his daugh- 
ter had torn it in her anger. What troubled her seemed to 
be something in the book notices, and he concluded that it 
must be a cruel ‘‘ slatting ” of a novel in one volume called 
‘‘The Scorn of Scorns.^’ Mr. Meredith remembered that 
Nell had compelled him to read that book and to say that he 
liked it. 

“ That’s all,” he said to himself, much relieved. 

He fancied that Nell, being a girl, was distressed to see a 
book she liked called “ the sentimental outpourings of some 
silly girl who ought to confine her writing to copy-books.” In 
a woman, so much excitement over nothing seemed quite a 
natural thing to Mr. Meredith. The sex had ceased to sur- 
prise him. Having retired from business, Mr. Meredith now 
did things slowly as a good way of passing the time. He had 
risen to wealth from penury, and counted time by hife dining- 
room chairs, having passed though a cane, a horse-hair and a 
leather period before arriving at morocco. Mrs. Meredith 
counted time by the death of her only son. 

It may be presumed that Nell would not have locked her- 
self into her bedroom and cried and stamped her feet on an 
imaginary critic had “ The scorn of Scorns” not interested 
her more than her father thought. She sat down to write a 
note to Mary. Then she tore it up, and wrote a letter to 
Mary’s elder brother, beginning with the envelope. She tore 
this up also, as another idea came into her head. She nodded 
several times to herself over this idea, as a sign that the more 
she thought of it the more the liked it. Then, after very 
nearly forgetting to touch her eyes with something that made 
them look less red, she returned to the drawing-room. 

“ Will,” she said, “ have you seen the new ponies papa 
gave me on my birthday?” 

Will leaped to his feet. 

“ Come on, Greybrooke,” he cried, making for the door. 

The captain hesitated. 

“ Perhaps,” said Nell, with a glance at him, “ Mr. Grey- 
brooke does not have much interest in horses?” 

“ Doesn’t he, just!” said Will. “ Why — ” 

“ No,” said Greybrooke; “ but I’ll wait here for you, Ab- 
inger.” 

Will was staggered. For a moment the horrible thought 
passed through his mind that these girls had got hold of the 
capt^'hi. Then he remembered. 


38 


wnm A mak’s siifaia; 

'' Come on/^ he said; Nell won’t mind.” 

But Greybrooke had a delicious notion that the young lady 
wanted to see him by himself, and Will had to go to the stables 
alone. 

I won’t be long,” he said to Greybrooke, apologizing for 
leaving him alone with a girl. ‘‘ Don’t bother him too much,” 
he whispered to Nell at the door. 

As soon as Will had disappeared Nell turned to Greybrooke. 

“ Mr. Greybrooke,” she said, speaking rapidly, in a voice 
so low that it was a compliment to him in itself, ‘‘ there is 
something I should like you to do for me.” 

The captain flushed with pleasure. 

There is nothing I wouldn’t do for you,” he stammered. 

“ I want you,” continued Miss Meredith, with a most vin- 
dictive look on her face, ‘‘to find out for me who wrote a 
book review in to-day’s Mirror , and to — to — oh, to thrash 
him.” 

“ All right,” said the captain, rising and looking for his hat. 

“Wait a minute,” said Nell, glancing at him admiringly. 
“ The book is called ‘ The Scorn of Scorns,’ and it was written 
by — by a friend of mine. In to-day’s Mirror it is called the 
most horrid names — sickly sentimental, not even grammatical, 
and all that.” 

“ The cads!” cried Greybrooke. 

“ But the horribly mean, wicked thing about it,” continued 
Nell, becoming more and more indignant as she told her 
story, “ is that not two months ago there was a review of the 
book in the same paper, which said it was the most pathetic 
and thoughtful and clever tale that had ever been published by 
an anonymous author!” 

“ It’s the lowest thing I ever heard of,” said Greybrooke; 
“but these newspaper men are aH'the same.” 

“ No, they’re not,” said Nell, sharply (Richard Abinger, 
Esq.’s only visible means of sustenance was the press); “ but 
they are dreadfully mean, contemptible creatures on the Mir- 
ror — just reporters, you know.” 

Greybrooke nodded, though he knew nothing about it. 

“ The first review,” Nell continued, “appeared on the 3d 
of October, and I want you to show them both to the editor, 
and insist upon knowing the name of the writer. After that 
find the wretch out, and — ” 

“ And lick him,” said the captain. 

His face frightened Nell. 

“You won’t hit him very hard?” she asked, apprehensive- 


WHEJS" A SIKGLE. 


ly, adding as an after-thought, Perhaps he is stronger than 
you.’^ 

Greybrooke felt himself in an unfortunate position. He 
could not boast before Nell, but he wished very keenly that 
Will was there to boast for him. Most of us have experienced 
the sensation. 

Nell having undertaken to keep Will employed until the 
captain^’s return, Greybrooke set off for the Mirror office with 
a look of determination on his face. He went into two shops, 
the one a news-shop, where he bought a copy of the paper. In 
the other he asked for a thick stick, having remembered that 
the elegant cane he carried was better fitted for swinging in 
the air than for breaking a newspaper many’s head. He tried 
the stick on a paling. Greybrooke felt certain that Miss Mere- 
dith was the novelist. That was why he selected so thick a 
weapon. 

He marched into the Mvertising office, and demanded to 
see the editor of the Mirror, 

“ ^ Stairs,^’ said a clerk, with his head in a ledger. He 
meant upstairs, and the squire of dames took his advice. 
After wandering for some time in a labyrinth of dark passages, 
he opened the door of the day composing-room, in which half 
a dozen silent figures were bending over their cases. 

I want the editor,” said Greybrooke, somewhat startled 
by the sound his voice made in the great room. 

‘‘ ’Stairs,” said one of the figures, meaning down-stairs. 

Greybrooke, remembering who had sent liim there, did not 
lose heart. He knocked at several doors, and then pushed 
them open. All the rooms were empty. Then he heard a 
voice saying, 

“ Who are you? What do you want?” 

Mr. Licquorish was the speaker, and he had been peering at 
the intruder for some time through a grating in his door. He 
would not have spoken at all, but he wanted to go into the 
composing-room, and Greybrooke was in the passage that led 
to it. 

“ I don’t see you,’’ said the captain; “ I want the editor.” 

‘‘lam the editor,” said the voice; “ but I can see no one 
at present except on business.” 

“I am here on business,” said Greybrooke. “ I want to 
trash one of your staff.” 

“ All the members of my literary staff are engaged at pres- 
ent,” said Mr. Licquorish, in a pleasant voice; “which one 
do you want?” 


40 


WHEN A man’s single. 


I want the low cad who wrote a review of a book called 
‘ The Scorn of Scorns ’ in to-day’s paper.” 

‘^Oh!” said Mr. Licquorish. 

‘‘ I demand his name!” cried Greybrooke. 

The editor made no answer. He had other things to do 
than to quarrel with school-boys. As he could not get out, 
he began a leaderette. The visitor, however, had discovered 
the editorial door now, and was shaking it violently. 

‘‘ Why don’t you answer me?” he cried. 

Mr. Licquorish thought for a moment of calling down the 
speaking-tube which communicated with the advertisement 
oflSce for a clerk to come and take this youth away, but after 
all he was good-natured. He finished a sentence, and then 
opened the door. The captain strode in, but refused a chair. 

“ Are you the author of the book?” the editor asked. 

“No,” said Greybrooke, “ but I am her friend, and I am 
here to thrash — ” 

Mr. Licquorish held up his hand to stop the fiow of the 
captain’s indignation. He could never understand why the 
public got so excited over these little matters. 

“ She is a Silchester lady?” he asked. 

Greybrooke did not know how to reply to this. He was not 
sure whether Nell wanted the authorship revealed. 

“ That has nothing to do with the matter,” he said. “ I 
want the name of the writer who has libeled her.” 

“On the press,” said Mr. Licquorish, repeating some 
phrases which he kept for such an occasion as the present, 
“ we have a duty to the public to perform. When books are 
sent us for review we never allow prejudice or private consid- 
eration to warp our judgment. The Mirror has in conse- 
quence a reputation for honesty that some papers do not pos- 
sess. Now, I distinctly remember that this book, ‘ The Vale 

Tears ’ ” 

“ ‘ The Scorn of Scorns.’ ” 

“ I mean ‘ The Scorn of Scorns ’ — was carefully considered 
by the expert to whom it was given for review. Being hon- 
estly of opinion that the treatise — ” 

“ It is a novel.” 

“ That the novel is worthless, we had to say so. Had it 
been clever, we should — ” 

Mr. Licquorish paused, reading in the other’s face that 
there was something wrong. Greybrooke had concluded that 
the editor had forgotten about the first review. 

“ Can you show me a copy of the Mirror,^^ the captain 
asked, “ for October 3d?” 


WHEN A man's single. 


Mr. Licjquorish turned to the file, and Greybrooke looked 
over his shoulder. 

‘‘ There it is!'^ cried the captain, indignantly. 

They read the original notice together. It said that if 

The Scorn of Scorns ” was written by a new writer, his next 
story would be looked for with great interest. It could not 
refrain from quoting the following exquisitely tender passage. 

It found the earlier pages as refreshing as a spring morn- 
ing,'^ and the closing chapters were a triumph of “ the art 
that conceals art." 

Well, what have you to say to that?" asked Greybrooke, 
fiercely. 

A mistake," said the editor, blandly. Such things do 
happen occasionally." 



The insult," cried Greybrooke, must have been inten- 
tional." 

‘‘No. I fancy the authoress must be to blame for this. Did 
she send a copy of the work to us?" 

“ I should think it very unlikely," said Greybrooke, fum- 


ing. 


“ Not at all," said the editor, “ especially if she is a Sil- 
chester lady." 

“ What would make her do that?" 

“ It generally comes about in this way. The publishers 
send a copy of the book to a newspaper, and owing to pressure 
on the paper’s space no notice appears for some time. The 
author, who looks for it daily, thinks that the publishers have 
neglected their duty, and sends a copy to the office himself. 
The editor, forgetful that he has had a notice of the book ly- 
ing ready for printing for months, gives the second copy to 
another reviewer. By and by the first review appears, but 
owing to an oversight the editor does not take note of it, and 
after a time, unless his attention is called to the matter, the 
second review appears also. Probably that is the explanation 
in this case." 

“ But such carelessness on a respectable paper is incompre- 
hensible," said the captain. 

The editor was looking up his books to see if they shed any 
light on the affair, but he answered : 

“ On the contrary, it is an experience known to most news- 
papers. Ah, I have it!" 

Mr. Licquorish read out, “ ‘ The Scorn of Scorns,’ received 
September 1st, reviewed October 3d." Several pages further 


42 


WEEK A man's single. 


on he discovered, ‘ The Scorn of Scorns/ received Septem 
her 24fch, reviewed December 19th. 

‘‘ You will find/’ he said, ‘‘ that this explains it.” 

“ I don’t eon«ider the explanation satisfactory,” replied the 
captain, I insist, first, upon an apology in the paper, and 
second, on getting the name of the writer of the second re- 
view.” 

‘‘ I am busy this morning,” said Mr. Licquorish, opening 
his door, and what you ask is absurd. If the authoress can 
give me her word that she did not send the book and so bring 
this upon herself, we shall insert a word on the subject, but 
not otherwise. Good-morning.” 

Give me the writer’s name,” cried the captain. 

‘MVe make a point of never giving names in that way,” 
said Mr. Licquorish. 

“You have not heard the last of this,” Greybrooke said 
from the door- way. “ I shall make it my duty to ferret out 
the coward’s name, and — ” 

“ Good -morning,” Mr. Licquorish repeated. 

The captain went thumping down the stairs, and meeting a 
printer’s devil at the bottom, cuffed him soundly because he 
was part of the Mirror, 

To his surprise. Miss Meredith’s first remark when he re- 
turned was: 

“ Oh, I hope you didn’t see him.” 

She looked at Greybrooke’ s face, fearing it might be stained 
with blood; and when he told her the result of his inquiries, 
she seemed pleased rather than otherwise. Nell was soft- 
hearted after all, and she knew how that second copy of the 
novel had reached the Mirror office. 

“ I shall find the fellow out, though,” said Greybrooke, 
grasping his cudgel firmly. 

“ Why, you are as vindictive as if you had written the book 
yourself,” said Nell. 

Greybrooke murmured, blushing the while, that an insult to 
her hurt him more than one offered to himself. Nell opened 
the eyes^ of astonishment. 

“ You don’t think I wrote the book?” she asked; then 
seeing that it was so from his face, added, “ Oh, no, I’m not 
clever enough. It was written by— by a friend of mine.” 

Nell deserves credit for not telling Greybrooke who the 
friend was, for that was a secret. But there was reason to 
believe that she had already divulged it to twelve persons (all 
in the strictest confidence). When the captain returned she 
was explaining all about it by letter to Eichard Abingerj Lsq. 


WHElf A SIKGLE. 43 

Fosfiibly that was why Greybrooke thought she was not nearly 
so nice to him now as she had been an hour before. 

Will was usually quiet when he and Greybrooke said adieu 
to the whole family of Merediths. He was burning to know 
where the captain had been, and also what Nell called him 
back to say in such a low tone. What she said was: 

“ Don^t say anything about going to the Mirror office, Mr. 
Greybrooke, to Miss Abinger.’^ 

The captain turned round to lift his hat, and at the same 
time expressed involuntarily a wish that Nell could see him 
punishing loose bowling. 

Mrs. Meredith b earned on him. 

“ There is something very nice,’’ she said to Nell, about 
a polite young man.” 

“ Yes,” murmured her daughter, “ and even if he isn’t 
polite.” 


CHAPTER V. 

ROB MARCHES TO HIS FATE. 

On the morning before Christmas a murder was committed 
in Silchester, and in murders there is “ lineage.” As a con- 
sequence, the head reporter attends to them himself. In the 
Mirror office the diary for the day was quickly altered. 
Kirker set off cheerfully for the scene of the crime, leaving 
the banquet in the Henry Institute to Tomlinson, who passed 
on his dinner at Dome Castle to Rob, whose church decora- 
tions were taken by John Milton. 

Christmas Eve was coming on in snow when Rob and Walsh, 
of the Argus, set out for Dome Castle. Rob disliked doing 
dinners at any time, partly because he had not a dress suit. 
The dinner was an annual one given by AVill’s father to his 
tenants, and reporters were asked because the colonel made a 
speech. His neighbors, when they did likewise, sent reports 
of their own speeches (which they seemed to like) to the pa- 
pers; and some of them, having called themselves eloquent 
and justly popular, scored the compliments out, yet in such 
a way that the editor would still be able to read them, and 
print them if he thought fit. Rob did not look forward to 
Colonel Abinger’s reception of him, for they had met some 
months before and called each other names. 

It was one day soon after Rob reached Silchester. He had 
gone a-fishing in the Dome and climbed unconsciously into 
the preserved waters. As his creel grew heavier his back 
straightened; not until he returned home did the scenery im- 


44 


WHEN A MAN^S SINGLE. 


press him. He had just struck a fine fish, when a soldierly 
looking man at the top of the steep bank caught sight of him. 

‘‘ Hie, you sir!’’ shouted the on-looker. Whir! went the line 
— there is no music like it. Rob was knee-deep in water. 
‘‘You fellow!” cried the other, brandishing his cane, “ are 
you aware that this water is preserved?” Rob had no time 
for talk. The colonel sought to attract his attention by 
flinging a pebble. “ Don’t do that!” cried Rob, fiercely. 

Away darted the fish. Away darted Rob after it. Colonel 
Ahinger’s face was red as he clambered down the bank. “ I 
shall prosecute you!” he shouted. “ He’s gone to the bottom; 
fling in a stone!” cried Rob. Just then the fish showed its 
yellow belly and darted off again. Rob let out more line. 
“No, no,” shouted the colonel, who fished himself, “ you’ll 
lose him if he gets to the other side; strike, man, strike!” 
The line tightened, the rod bent — a glorious sight. “ Force 
him up-stream,” cried the colonel, rolling over some bowlders 
to assist. “ Now you have him. Bring him in. Where is 
your landing-net?” “ I haven’t one!” cried Rob; “ take him 
in your hands. ” The colonel stooped to grasp the fish and 
missed it. “ Bungler!” screamed Rob. This was too much. 
“ Give me your name and address,” said Colonel Abinger, 
rising to his feet; “ you are a poacher.” Rob paid no atten- 
tion. There was a struggle. Rob did not realize that he had 
pushed his assailant over a rock until the fish landed. Then 
he apologized, offered all his fish in lieu of his name and ad- 
dress, retired coolly so long as the furious soldier was in sight, 
and as soon as he turned a corner disappeared rapidly. He 
could not feel that his was the best introduction to the man 
with whom he was now on his way to dine. 

The reporter, whose long strides made Walsh trot as they 
hurried to Dome Castle, was not quite the Rob of three 
months before. Now he knew how a third-rate newspaper is 
conducted, and the capacity for wonder had gone from him. 
He was in danger of thinking that the journalist’s art is to 
write readably, authoritatively, and always in three paragraphs 
on a subject he knows nothing about. Rob had written many 
leaders, and followed readers through the streets wondering if 
they liked them. Once he had gone with three others to re-* 
port a bishop’s sermon. A curate appeared instead, and when 
the reporters saw him they shut their note-books and marched 
blandly out of the cathedral. A public speaker had tried to 
bribe Rob with two half-crowns, and it is still told in Silchester 
how the wrathful Scotsman tore his benefactor out of the car- 
riage he had just stepped into, and, lifting him on high, looked 


"WHEK A SmatE. 


45 


round to consider against which stone wall he should hurl him. 
He had discovered that on the first of the month Mr. Licquor- 
ish could not help respecting his staff, because on that day he 
paid them. Socially, Rob had acquired little. Protheroe had 
introduced him to a pleasant family, but he had sat silent in a 
corner, and they told the subeditor not to bring him back. 
Most of the literary staff were youths trying to be bohemians, 
who liked to feel themselves sinking, and they never scaled the 
reserve which walled Rob round. He had taken a sitting, 
however, in the Scotch church, to the bewilderment of the 
minister, who said, ‘‘ But I thought you were a reporter?’’ as 
if there must be a mistake somewhere. 

Walsh could tell Rob little of Colonel Abinger. He was a 
brave soldier, and for many years had been a widower. His 
elder son was a barrister in London, whom Silchester had 
almost forgotten, and Walsh fancied there was some story 
about the daughter’s being engaged to a baronet. There was 
also a boy, who had the other day brought the captain of liis 
school to a Silchester foot-ball ground to show the club how to 
take a drop-kick. 

Does the colonel fish?” asked Rob, who would, however, 
have preferred to know if the colonel had a good memory for 
faces. 

He is a famous angler,” said Walsh; indeed, I have 
been told that his bursts of passion are over in five minutes, 
except when he catches a poacher.” 

Rob winced, for Walsh did not know of the fishing episode. 

His temper,” continued Walsh, ‘‘ is such that his male 
servants are said never to know whether he will give them a 
shilling or a whirl of his cane — until they get it. The gardenei- 
takes a look at him from behind a tree before venturing to 
address him. I suppose his poverty is at the bottom of it, for 
the estate is mortgaged heavily, and he has had to cut down 
trees, and even to sell his horses. The tenants seem to like 
him, though, and if they dared they would tell him not to 
think himself bound to give them this annual dinner. There 
are numberless stories of his fierce temper, and as many of his 
extravagant kindness. According to his servants, he once 
emptied his pocket to a beggar at a railway-station, and then 
discovered that he had no money for his own ticket. As for 
the ne’er-do-weels, their importuning makes him rage, but 
they know he will fling them something in the end if they 
expose their rags sufficiently.” 

“So,” said Rob, who did not want to like the colonel, “ he 
would not trouble about them if they kept their misery to 


46 


WHEN A man’s single. 


themselves. That kind of man is more likely to be a philan- 
thropist in your country than in mine.’^ 

“ Keep that for a Burns dinner/’ suggested Walsh. 

Rob heard now how Tomlinson came to be nicknamed Um- 
brage. 

“ He was subediting one night/’ Walsh explained, during 
the time of an African war, and things were going so smoothly 
that he and Penny were chatting amicably together about the 
advantage of having a few Latin phrases in a leader, such as 
clolce far niente or cela va sans dire. ’ ” 

‘‘ I can believe that,” said Rob, ‘‘ of Penny certainly.” 

Well, in the middle of the discussion an important war 
telegram arrived, to the not unnatural disgust of both. As is 
often the case, the message was misspelled, and barely de- 
cipherable, and one part of it puzzled Tomlinson a good deal. 
It read: ‘ Zulus have taken Umbrage; English forces had to 
retreat.’ Tomlinson searched the map in vain for Umbrage, 
which the Zulus had taken; and Penny, being in a hurry, was 
sure it was a fortress. So they risked it, and next morning 
the chief lines in the Mirror contents bill were: ‘ Latest News 
of the War; Capture of Umbrage by the Zulus.’ ” 

By tills time the reporters had passed into the grounds of 
the castle, and, being late, were hurrying up the grand ave- 
nue. It was the hour and the season when night comes on so 
sharply that its shadow may be seen trailing the earth as a 
breeze runs along a field of corn. Heard from a height, the 
roar of the Dome among rocks might have been the rustle of 
the surrounding trees in June; so men and women who grow 
old together sometimes lend each other a voice. Walsh, seeing 
his opportunity in Rob’s silence, began to speak of himself. 
He told how his first press-work had been a series of letters he 
had written when at school, and contributed to a local paper 
under the signatures of Paterfamilias ” and An Indignant 
Rate-payer.” Rob scarcely heard. The bare romantic scen- 
ery impressed him, and the snow in his face was like a whifl 
of Thrums. He was dreaming, but not of the reception he 
might get at the castle, when the clatter of horses awoke him. 

“ There is a machine behind us,” he said, though he would 
have written trap. 

A brougham lumbered into sight. As its lamps flashed on 
the pedestrians, the coachman jerked his horses to the side, 
and Rob had a glimpse of the carriage’s occupant. The 
brougham stopped. 

‘‘ I beg your pardon,” said the traveler, opening Ins win- 


WHEIJ A SINGLE. 


47 



uow, and addressing Eob, but in the darkness I mistook you 
ipr Colonel Abinger.” 

y ‘ We are on our way to the castle/’ said Walsh, stepping 
forward. 

Ah, then,” said the stranger, perhaps you will give me 
your company for the short distance we have still to go?” 

There was a fine courtesy in his manner that made the re- 
porters feel their own deficiencies, yet Bob thought the stranger 
repented his. offer as soon as it was made. Walsh had his hand 
on the door, but Kob said : 

‘‘We are going to Dome Castle as reporters.” 

“Oh!” said the stranger. Then he bowed graciously, and 
pulled up the window. The carriage rumbled on, leaving the 
reporters looking at each other. Eob laughed. For the first 
time in his life the advantage a handsome man has over a 
plain one had struck him. He had only once seen such a face 
before, and that was in marble in the Silchester Art Museum. 
This man looked thirty years of age, but there was not a line 
on his broad, white brow. The face was magnificently classic, 
from the strong Eoman nose to the firm chin. The eyes, too 
beautiful almost for his sex, were brown and wistful, of the 
kind that droop in disappointment oftener than they blaze 
with anger. All the hair on his face was a heavy drooping 
mustache that almost hid his mouth. 

Walsh shook his fist at this insult to the Press. 

“ It is the baronet I spoke to you of,” he said. “ I forget 
who he is; indeed, I rather think he traveled incognito when 
he was here last. I don’t understand what he is doing here.” 

“ Why, I should say this is just the place where he would 
be if he is to marry Miss Abinger.” 

“ That was an old story,” said Walsh. “ If there ever was 
an engagement it was broken off. Besides, if he had been ex- 
pected we should have known of it at the Argus.’ ^ 

Walsh was right. Sir Clement Dowton was not expected 
at Dome Castle, and, like Eob, he was not even certain that 
he would be welcome. As he drew near his destination his 
hands fidgeted with the window-strap, yet there was an unac- 
countable twinkle in his eye. Had there been any on-lookers 
they would have been surprised to see that all the baronet’s 
sense of humor seemed to overcome his fears, and instead of 
quaking he laughed heartily. Sir Clement was evidently one 
of the men who carry their joke about with them. 

This unexpected guest did Eob one good turn. When the 
colonel saw Sir Clement he hesitated for a moment as if not 
certain how to greet him. Then the baronet, who was effu- 


IS 


WHE2f A SliTGLE. 


sive, murmured that he had something to say to him^ and 
Colonel Abinger^s face cleared. He did Sir Clement the ur- 
usual honor of accompanying him upstairs himself, and so 
Rob got the seat assigned to him at the dinner-table without 
having to meet his host in the face. The butler marched him 
down a long table with a twist in it, and placed him under 
arrest, as it were, in a chair from which he saw only a few of 
the company. The dinner had already begun, but the first 
thing he realized as he took his seat was that there was a lady 
on each side of him and a table-napkin in front. He was not 
sure if he was expected to address the ladies, and he was still 
less certain about the table-napkin. Of such things he had 
read, and he had even tried to be prepared for them. Rob 
looked nervously at the napkin, and then took a covert glance 
along the table. There was not a napkin in sight except one 
which a farmer had tied round his neck. Rob’s fingers wanted 
to leave the napkin alone, but by an effort he forced them 
toward it. All this time his face was a blank, but the internal 
struggle was sharp. He took hold of the napkin, however, 
and spread it on his knees. It fell to the fioor immediately 
afterward, but he disregarded that. It was no longer staring 
at him from the table, and with a heavy sigh of relief he be- 
gan to feel more at ease. There is nothing like burying our 
bogies. 

His position prevented Rob’s seeing either the colonel at the 
head of the table or Miss Abinger at the foot of it, and even 
Walsh was hidden from view. But his right-hand neighbor 
was a local doctor’s wife, whom the colonel had wanted to 
honor without honoring too much, and she gave him some in- 
formation. Rob was relieved to hear her address him, and 
she was interested in the tame Scotsman. 

I was once in the far north myself,” she said, ‘‘ as far as 
Orkney. We were nearly drowned in crossing that dreadful 
sea between it and the main-land. The Solway Firth, is it?” 

Rob thought for a moment of explaining what sea it is, and 
then he thought why should he. 

Yes, the Solway Firth,” he said. 

It was rather an undertaking,” she pursued, but 
though we were among the mountains for days, we never en- 
countered any of those robber chieftains one reads about — cat- 
erans I think you call them?” 

“ You were very lucky,” said Rob. 

“ Were we not? But, you know, we took such precautions. 
There was quite a party of us, including my father, who has 
traveled a great deal, and all the gentlemen wore kilts. My 


WHElf A MAN^S SIKGLE. 49 

\father said it was always prudent to do in Rome as the Ro- 
Vians do/^ 

' ‘‘I have no doubt/ ^ said Rob, that in that way you es- 
caped the caterans. They are very open to flattery.’^ 

“ So my father said. We also found that we could make 
omselyes understood by saying ‘ whatever/ and remembering 
to call the men ‘ she ^ and the women ‘ he. ’ What a funny 
custom that is!’’ 

‘‘We can’t get out of it/’ said Rob. 

“ There is one thing,” the lady continued, “ that you can 
tell me. 1 have been told that in winter the wild boars take 
refuge in the streets of Inverness, and that there are sometimes 
very exciting hunts after them.” 

“ That is only when they run away with children,” Rob ex- 
plained. “ Then the natives go out in large bodies and shoot 
them with claymores. It is a most exciting scene.” 

When the doctor’s wife learned that this was Rob’s first 
visit to the castle, she told him at once that she was there fre- 
quently. It escaped his notice that she paused here and 
awaited the effect. She was not given to pausing. 

“ My husband,” she said, “ attended on Lady Louisa dur- 
ing her last illness — quite ten years ago. I was married very 
young,” she added, hurriedly. 

Rob was very nearly saying that he saw that. The words 
were in his mouth, when he hesitated, reflecting that it was 
not worth while. This is only noticeable as showing that he 
missed his first compliment. 

“ Lady Louisa?” he repeated instead. 

“ Oh, yes, the colonel married one of Lord Tarlington’s 
daughters. There were seven of them, you know, and no 
sons, and when the youngest was born it was said that a friend 
of his lordship sent him a copy of Wordsworth, with the page 
turned down at the poem, ‘ We are Seven ’ — a lady friend, I 
believe.” 

“ Is Miss Abinger like the colonel?” asked Rob, who had 
heard it said that she was beautiful, and could not help taking 
an interest in her in consequence. 

“You have not seen Miss Abinger?” asked the doctor’s 
wife. “ Ah, you came late, and that vulgar-looking farmer 
hides her altogether. She is a lovely girl, but — ” 

Rob’s companion pursed her lips. 

“ She is so cold and proud,” she added. 

“ As proud as her father?” Rob ask«d, aghast. 

“ Oh, the colonel is humility itself beside her. He freezes 
at times^ but she never thaws.” 


50 


WHElf A MAN^S SINGLE. 


Kob sighed involuntarily. He was not not aware that his 
acquaintances spoke in a similar way of him. His eyes wan- 
dered up the table till they rested of their own accord on a 
pretty girl in blue. At that moment she was telling Grey- 
brooke that he could call her Nell, because Miss Meredith 
sounded like a reproach. 

The reporter looked at Nell with satisfaction, and the doc- 
tor’s wife followed his thoughts so accurately that before she 
could check herself she said, “ Do you think so?” 

Then Rob started, which confused both of them, and for 
the remainder of the dinner the loquacious lady seemed to 
take less interest in him, he could not understand why. 
Flung upon his own resources, he remembered that he had 
not spoken to the lady on his other side. Had Rob only known 
it she felt much more uncomfortable in that great dining-room 
than he did. No one was speaking to her, and she passed the 
time between the courses breaking her bread to pieces and eat- 
ing it slowly, crumb by crumb. Rob thought of something 
to say to her, but when he tried the words over in his own 
mind, they seemed so little worth saying that he had to think 
again. He found himself counting the crumbs, and then it 
struck him that he might ask her if she would like any salt. 
He did so, but she thought he asked for salt, and passed the 
salt-cellar to him, whereupon Rob, as the simplest way to get 
out of it, helped himself to more salt, though he did not need 
it. The intercourse thus auspiciously begun went no further, 
and they never met again. It might have been a romance. 

The colonel had not quite finished his speech, which was to 
the effect that so long as his tenants looked up to him as some 
one superior to themselves they would find him an indulgent 
landlord, when the tread of feet was heard outside, and theh 
the music of the waits. The colonel frowned and raised his 
voice, but his guests caught themselves tittering, and read 
their host’s rage in his darkening face. Forgetting that the 
waits were there by his own invitation, he signed to James, the 
butler, to rush out and mow them down. James did not in- 
terpret the message so, but for the moment it was what his 
master meant. 

While the colonel was hesitating whether to go on, Rob saw 
Nell nod encouragingly to Greybrooke. He left his seat and 
before any one knew what he was about, had fiung open one 
of the windows. The room filled at once with music, and, as if 
by common consent, the table was deserted. Will opened the 
remaining windows, and the waits, who had been singing to 
shadows on the white blinds, all at once found a crowded audi- 


WttEK k MAK^S SIKGLE. ' -S I • 

♦nee. Rob hardly realized what it meant, for he had never 
lizard the waits before. 

It was a scene that would have silenced a school-girl. The 
night was so clear that beyond the lawn where the siugers were 
grouped the brittle trees showed in every twig. No snow was 
falling, and so monotonous was the break of the river that the 
ear would only have noticed it had it stopped. The moon stood 
overhead like a frozen round of snow. 

Looking over the heads of those who had gathered at one of 
the windows, Rob saw first Will Abinger and then the form of 
a girl cross to the singers. Some one followed her with a 
cloak. From the French windows steps dropped to the lawn. 
A lady beside Rob shivered and retired to the fireside, but Neil 
whispered to Greybrooke that she must run after Mary. Sev- 
eral others followed her down the steps. 

Rob, looking round for Walsh, saw him in conversation with 
the colonel. Probably he was taking down the remainder of 
the speech. Then a lady’s voice said, ‘‘ Who is that magnifi- 
cent young man?” 

The sentence ended “ with the hobnailed boots,” and the 
reference was to Rob, but he caught only the first words. He 
thought the baronet was spoken of, and suddenly remembered 
that he had not appeared at the dinner-table. As Sir Clement 
entered the room at that moment in evening dress, making 
most of those who surrounded him look mean by comparison, 
Rob never learned who the magnificent young man was. 

Sir Clement’s entrance was something of a sensation, and 
Rob saw several ladies raise their eyebrows. All seemed to 
know him by name, and some personally. The baronet’s 
nervousness had evidently passed away, for he bowed and 
smiled to every one, claiming some burly farmers as old ac- 
quaintances though he had never seen them before. His host 
and he seemed already on the most cordial terms, but the 
colonel was one of the few persons in the room who were not 
looking for Miss Abinger. At last Sir Clement asked for her. 

“ I believe,” said some one in answer to the colonel’s in- 
quiring glance round the room, ‘‘ that Miss Abinger is speak- 
ing with the waits.” 

“Perhaps I shall see her,” said Dowton, stepping out at 
one of the windows. 

Colonel Abinger followed him to the window, but no fur- 
ther, and at that moment a tall figure on the snowy lawn 
crossed his line of vision. It was Rob, who, not knowing what 
to do with himself, had wandered into the open. His back 
was toward the colonel, and sornediing iiiRis walk recalled to 


52 WEEK A man’s single. 

that choleric officer the angler whom he had encountered m 
the Dome. 

‘‘ That is the man — I was sure I knew the face/*’ said 
Colonel Abinger. He spoke in a whisper to himself, but his 
hands closed with a snap. 

Unconscious of all this, Rob strolled on till he found a path 
that took him round the castle. Suddenly, he caught sight of 
a blue dress, and at the same moment a girl’s voice exclaimed, 
“ Oh, I am afraid it is lost!” 

The speaker bent, as if to look for something in the snow, 
and Rob blundered up to her. “ If you have lost anything,” 
he said, ‘‘ perhaps I can find it.” 

Rob had matches in his pocket, and he struck one of them. 
Then, to his surprise, he noticed that Nell was not alone. 
Greybrooke was with her, and was looking foolish. 

“ Thank you, very much,” said Nell, sweetly; ‘^it is a — 
a bracelet.” 

Rob went down on his knees to look for the bracelet, but it 
surprised him a little that Greybrooke did not follow his ex- 
ample. If he had looked up he would have seen that the cap- 
tain was gazing at Nell in amazement. 

“ I am afraid it is lost,” Nell repeated, ‘‘ or perhaps I 
dropped it in the dining-room.” 

Greybrooke’s wonder was now lost in a grin, for Nell had 
lost nothing, unless perhaps for the moment her sense of what 
was fit and proper. The captain had followed her on to the 
lawn, and persuaded her to come and look down upon the 
river from the top of the cliff. She had done so, she told her- 
self, because he was a boy; but he had wanted her to do it be- 
cause she was a woman. On the very spot where Richard 
Abinger, barrister at law, had said something to her that Nell 
would never forget, the captain had presumptuously kissed 
her hand, and Nell had allowed him, because after all it was 
soon over. It was at that very moment that Rob came in 
sight, and Nell thought she was justified in deceiving him. 
Rob would have remained a long time on the snow if she had 
not had a heart. 

“ Yes, I believe I did drop it in the dining-room,” said 
'Nell, in such a tone of conviction that Rob rose to his feet. 
His knees were white in her service, and Nell felt that she 
liked this young man. 

I am so sorry to have troubled you, Mr.— Mr. — ” began 
the young lady. 

‘‘ My name is Angus,” said Rob; “I am a reporter on the 
Silchester Mirror.^' 


53 


WHEK- A MAN^S STKGLE. 

Greybrooke started, and Nell drew back in horror, but the 
next second she was smiling. Rob thought it was kindliness 
that made her do it, but it was really a smile of triumph. 
She felt that she was on the point of making a discovery at 
last. Greybrooke would have blurted out a question, but Nell 
stopped him. 

“ Get me a wrap of some kind, Mr. Greybrooke,’^ she said, 
with such sweet imperiousness that the captain went without 
a word. Half-way he stopped to call himself a fool, for he 
had remembered all at once about Raleigh and his cloak, and 
seen how he might have adapted that incident to his advantage 
by offering to put his own coat round Nell’s shoulders. 

It was well that Greybrooke did not look back, for he would 
have seen Miss Meredith take Rob’s arm — which made Rob 
start — and lead him in the direction in which Miss Abinger 
was supposed to have gone. 

‘‘ The literary life must be delightful,” said artful Nell, 
looking up into her companion’s face. 

Rob appreciated the flattery, but his pride made him say 
that the literary life was not the reporter’s. 

I always read the Mirror,'^ continued Nell, on whom the 
moon was having a bad effect to-night, and often I wonder 
who writes the articles. There was a book review in it a few 
days ago that I — I liked very much.” 

Do you remember what the book was?” asked Rob, jump- 
ing into the pit. 

“ Let me see,” said Nell, putting her head to the side, it 
was — yes, it was a novel called — called ‘ The Scorn of Scorns. ’ ” 

Rob’s good angel was very near him at that moment, but 
not near enough to put her palm over his mouth. 

“ That review was mine,” said Rob, with uncalled-for satis- 
faction. 

“Was it?” cried his companion, pulling away her arm 
viciously. 

The path had taken them to the top of the pile of rocks, 
from which it is a sheer descent of a hundred feet to the Dome. 
At this point the river is joined by a smaller, but not less noisy 
stream, which rushes at it at right angles. Two of the castle 
walls rise up here as if part of the cliff, and though the walk 
goes round them, they seem to the angler looking up from the 
opposite side of the Dome, to be part of the rock. From the 
windows that look to the west and north one can see down 
into the black waters, and hear the Ferret, as the smaller 
stream is called, fling itself over jaggled bowlders into the 
Dome. 




WHEN A MAN^S SINGLE. 


The rayine coming upon him suddenly, took away Rob's 
breath, and he hardly felt Nell snatch away her arm. She 
stood back, undecided what to do for a moment, and they 
were separated by a few yards. Then Rob heard a man's 
voice, soft and low, but passionate. He knew it to be Sir 
Clement Dowton's, though he lost the words. A girl's voice 
answered, however — a voice so exquisitely modulated, so clear 
and pure, that Rob trembled with delight in it. This is what 
it said: 

‘‘No, Sir Clement Dowton, I bear you no ill-will, but I do 
not love you. Years ago 1 made an idol and worshiped it, be- 
cause I knew no better; but I am a foolish girl no longer, and 
I know now that it was a thing of clay." 

To Rob's amazement he found himself murmuring these 
words even before they were spoken. He seemed to know 
them so well that had the speaker missed anything he could 
have put her right. It was not sympathy that worked this 
marvel. He had read all this before, or something very like 
it, in “ The Scorn of Scorns." 

Nell, too, heard the voice, but did not catch the words. She 
ran forward, and as she reached Rob, a tall girl in white, with 
a dark hood over her head, pushed aside a bush and came 
into view. 

“ Mary," cried Miss Meredith, “ this gentleman here is the 
person that wrote ‘that' in the Mi?Tor. Let me introduce 
you to him. Mr. Angus, Miss — " and then Nell shrunk back 
in amazement as she saw who was with her friend. 

“ Sir Clement Dowton!" she exclaimed. 

Rob, however, did not hear her, nor see the baronet, for 
looking up with a guilty feeling at his heart, his eyes met 
Mary Abinger. 


CHAPTER VI. 

THE ONE WOMAN. 

Day-break on the following morning found the gas blazing 
in Rob's lodgings. Rob was seated in an arm-chair, his feet 
on the cold hearth. “ The Scorn of Scorns " lay on the man- 
tel-piece carefully done up in brown paper, lest a speck of 
dust should fall on it, and he had been staring at the ribs of 
the fire-place for the last three hours without seeing them. He 
had not thought of the gas. His bed was uns'lept on. His 
damp boots had dried on his feet. He did not feel cold. All 
night he had sat there, a man mesmerized. For the only time 
in his life he had forgotten to wind up his watch. 


WHEK A MAN^S SIKGLE. 


o5 


At times his lips moved as if he were speaking to himself, 
and a smile lighted up his face. Then a change of mood came, 
and he beat the fender with his feet till the fire-irons rattled. 
Thinking over these remarks brought the rapture to his face: 

‘‘ How do you do, Mr. Angus?"” 

You must not take to heart what Miss Meredith said."” 

‘‘ Please don’t say any more about it. I am quite sure you 
gave your honest opinion about my book.” 

“ I am so glad you think this like Scotland, because, of 
course, that is the highest compliment a Scotsman can pa3%” 

‘‘Good-night, Mr. Angus.” 

That was all she said to him, but the more Rob thought 
over her remarks the more he liked them. It was not so 
much the words themselves that thrilled him as the way they 
were said. Other people had asked, “ How do you do, Mr. 
Angus?” without making an impression, but her greeting was 
a revelation of character, for it showed that though she knew 
who he was she wanted to put him at his ease. This is a de- 
lightful attribute in a woman, and was worth thinking about. 

Just before Miss Abinger said, “ How do you do, Mr. 
Angus?” Rob had realized what people meant by calling her 
proud. She was holding her head very high as she appeared 
in the path, and when Nell told her who Rob was she fiushed. 
He looked hopelessly at her, bereft of speech, as he saw a tear 
glisten on her eyelid; and as their eyes met she read into the 
agony that he was suffering because he had hurt her. It was 
then that Mary made that memorable observation, “ How do 
you do, Mr. Angus?” 

They turned toward the castle doors, Nell and the baronet 
in front, and Rob blurted out some self-reproaches in sen- 
tences that had neither beginning nor end. Mary had told 
him not to take it so terribly to heart, but her voice trembled 
a little, for this had been a ni^ht of incident to her. Rob 
knew that it was for his sake she had checked that tear, and 
as he sat in his lodgings through the night he saw that she had 
put aside her own troubles to lessen his. When he thought of 
that he drew a great breath. The next moment his whole body 
shuddered to think what a brute he had been, and then she 
seemed to touch his elbow again, and he half rose from his 
chair in a transport. 

As soon as he reached his lodgings Rob had taken up “ The 
Scorn of Scorns,” which he had not yet returned to Mr. Lie- 
quorish, and reread it in a daze. There were things in it so 
beautiful now that they caught in his throat and stopped his 


WHEN A MAN^S SINGLE. 


d3 

reading; they took him so far into the thoughts of a girl that 
to go further seemed like eavesdropping. When he read it 
first “ The Scorn of Scorns ’’ had been written in a tongue 
Eob did not know, but now he had the key in his hands. 
There is a universal language that comes upon young people 
suddenly, and enables an English girl, for instance, to under- 
stand what a Chinaman means when he looks twice at her. 
Eob had mastered it so suddenly that he was only its slave at 
present. His horse had run away with him. 

Had the critic of The Scorn of Scorns been a bald- 
headed man with two chins, who did not know the authoress, 
he would have smiled at the severity with which she took per- 
fidious man to task, and written an indulgent criticism without 
reading beyond the second chapter. If he had been her father 
he RTOuld have laughed a good deal at her heroics, but now 
and again they would have touched him, and he would have 
locked the book away in his desk, seeing no particular clever- 
ness in it, but feeling proud of his daughter. It would have 
brought such thoughts to him about his wife as suddenly fill a 
man with tenderness — thoughts he seldom gives expression to, 
though she would like to hear them. 

Eob, however, drank in the book, his brain filled with the 
writer of it. It was about a young girl who had given her 
heart to a stranger, and one day, when she was full of the joy 
of his love, he had disappeared. She waited wondering, fear- 
ing, and then her heart broke, and her only desire was to die. 
No one could account for the change that came over her, for 
she was proud, and her relatives were not sympathetic. She 
had no mother to go to, and her father could not have under- 
stood. She became listless, and though she smiled and talked 
to all, when she went to her solitary bed-chamber she turned 
her face in silence to the wall. Then a fever came to her, 
and after that she had to be taken to the Continent. What 
shook her listlessness was an accident to her father. It was 
feared that he was on his death-bed, and as she nursed him she 
saw that her life had been a selfish one. From that moment 
she resolved if he got better (is it not terrible this, that the 
best of us try to make terms with God?) to devote her life to 
him, and to lead a nobler existence among the poor and suffer- 
ing ones at home. The sudden death of a relative who was 
not a good man frightened her so much that she became ill 
again, and now she was so fearful of being untruthful that she 
could not make a statement of fact without adding, “T think 
so,’" under her breath. She let people take advantage of her 
lest she should be taking advantage of them, and when she 


WHEK A MAK^S SINGLE. 57 

passed a cripple on the road she walked very slowly so that he 
should not feel his infirmity. 

Years afterward she saw the man who had pretended to 
love her and then ridden away. He said that he could explain 
everything to her, and that he loved her still; but she drew 
herself up, and with a look of ineffable scorn told him that 
she no longer loved him. When they first met, she said, she 
liad been little more than a child, and so she had made an 
idol of him. But long since the idol had crumbled to pieces, 
and now she knew that she had worshiped a thing of clay. She 
wished him well, but she no longer loved him. As Lord Oal- 
tonbridge listened he knew that she spoke the truth, and his 
eyes dropped before her dignified but contemptuous gaze. 
Then, concludes the author, dwelling upon this little triumph 
with a satisfaction that hardly suggests a heart broken beyond 
mending, he turned upon his heel, at last realizing what he 
was; and, feeling smaller and meaner than had been his wont, 
left the Grange for the second and last time. 

How much of this might be fiction, Rob was not in a mind 
to puzzle over. It seemed to him that the soul of a pure- 
minded girl had been laid bare to him. To look was almost 
a desecration, and yet it was there whichever way he turned. 
A great longing rose in his heart to see Mary Abinger again 
and tell her what he thought of himself now. He rose and 
paced the floor, and the words he could not speak last night 
came to his lips in a torrent. Like many men who live much 
alone, Rob often held imaginary conversations with persons 
far distant, and he denounced himself to this girl a score of 
times as he paced backward and forward. Always she looked 
at him in reply with that wonderful smile which had pleaded 
with him not to be unhappy on her account. Horrible fears 
laid hold of him that after the guests had departed she had 
gone to her room and wept. That villain Sir Clement had 
doubtless left the castle for the second and last time “ feeling 
smaller and meaner than had been his wont ’’ (Rob clinched 
his fists at the thought of him); but how* could he dare to rage 
at the baronet when he had been as great a scoundrel himself? 
Rob looked about him for his hat; a power not to be resisted 
was drawing him back to Dome Castle. 

He heard the clatter of crockery in the kitchen as he opened 
his door, and it recalled him to himself. At that moment it 
flashed upon him that he had forgotten to write any notice of 
Colonel Abinger’s speech. He had neglected the office and 
come straight home. At any other time this would have 
startled him^ but now it seemed the merest trifle. It passed 


-wnm A man’s single. 


ds 

for the moment from his mind, and its place was taken by the 
remembrance that his boots were muddy and his coat soaking. 
For the first time in his life the seriousness of going out with his 
hair unbrushed came home to him. He had hitherto been con- 
tent to do little more than fiing a comb at it once a day. Rob 
returned to his room, and crossing to the mirror, looked anx- 
iously into it to see what he was like. He took off his coat 
and brushed it vigorously. 

Having laved his face, he opened his box and produced 
from it two neck-ties, which he looked at for a long time before 
lie could make up his mind which to wear. Then he changed 
his boots. When he had brushed his hat he remembered with 
anxiety some one on the Mirror having asked him why he 
wore it so far back on his head. He tilted it forward, and 
carefully examined the effect in the looking-glass. Then, for- 
getful that the sounds from the kitchen betokened the ap- 
proach of breakfast, he hurried out of the house. It was a 
frosty morning, and already the streets were alive; but Rob 
looked at no one. For women in the abstract he now felt an 
unconscious pity, because they were all so very imlike Mary 
Abinger. He had grown so much in the night that the Rob 
Angus of the day before seemed but an acquaintance of his 
youth. 

He was inside the grounds of Home Castle again before he 
realized that he had no longer a right to be there. 5y fits 
and starts he remembered not to soil his boots. He might 
have been stopped at the lodge, but at present it had no ten- 
ant. A year before. Colonel Abinger had realized that he 
could not keep both a horse and a lodge-keeper, and that he 
could keep neither if his daughter did not part with her maid. 
He yielded to Miss Abinger’ s entreaties, and kept the horse. 

Rob went on at a swinging pace till he turned an abrupt 
corner of the walk and saw Home Castle standing up before 
him. Then he started, and turned back hastily. This was 
not owing to his remembering that he was trespassing, but 
because lie had seen a young, lady coming down the steps. 
Rob had walked five miles without his breakfast to talk with 
Miss Abinger, but as soon as he saw her he fied. When he 
came to himself he was so fearful of her seeing him that he 
hurried behind a tree, where he had the appearance of a burg- 
lar. 

Mary Abinger came quickly up the avenue, unconscious 
that she was watched, and Rob discovered in a moment that 
after all the prettiest thing about her was the way she walked. 
She carried a little basket in her hand, and her dress was a 


WHEN A man's single. , 59 

blending of brown and yellow, with a great deal of fur about 
the throat. Rob, however, did not take the dress into account 
until she had passed' him, when, no longer able to see her 
face, he gazed with delight after her. 

Had Rob been a lady he would probably have come to the 
conclusion that the reason w^hy Miss Abinger wore all that fur 
instead of a jacket was because she knew it became her better. 
Perhaps it was. Even though a young lady has the satisfac- 
tion of feeling that her heart is now adamant, that is no ex- 
cuse for her dressing badly. Rob’s opinion was that it would 
matter very little what she wore, because some pictures look 
lovely in any frame; but that was a point on which he and 
Miss Abinger always differed. Only after long consideration 
had she come to the conclusion that the hat she was now wear- 
ing was undoubtedly the shape that sflited her best, and even 
yet she was ready to spend time in thinking about other 
shapes. What would have seemed even more surprising to 
Rob was that she had made up her mind that one side of her 
face was better than the other side. 

No mere man, however, could ever have told which was the 
better side of Miss Abinger’s face. It was a face to stir the 
conscience of a good man, and make unworthy men keep their 
distance, for it spoke of purity, which can never be present 
anywhere without being felt. All men are born with a crav- 
ing to find it, and they never look for it but among women. 
The strength of the craving is the measure of any man’s ca- 
pacity to love, and without it love on his side would be im- 
possible. 

Mary Abinger was fragile because she was so sensitive. She 
carried everywhere a fear to hurt the feelings of others that 
was a bodkin at her heart. Men and women in general prefer 
to give and take. The keenness with which she felt necessi- 
tated the garment of reserve, which those who did not need it 
for themselves considered pride. Her weakness called for 
something to wrap it up. There were times when it pleased 
her to know that the disguise was effective, but not when it 
deceived persons she admired. The cynicism of ‘‘ The Scorn 
of Scorns ” was as much a cloak as her coldness, for she had 
an exquisite love of what is good and fine in life that idealized 
into heroes persons she knew or heard of as having a virtue. 
It would have been cruel to her to say that there are no 
heroes. When she iound how little of the heroic there was in 
Sir Clement Dowton she told herself that there are none, and 
sometimes other persons had made her repeat this since. She ^ 
seldom reasoned about things, however^ unless her feelings had 


60 


WHEN A man’s single. 


been wounded, and soon again she was dreaming of the heroic. 
Heroes are people to love, and Mary’s idea of what love must 
be would have frightened some persons from loving her. With 
most men affection for a woman is fed on her regard for them. 
Greatness in love is no more common than greatness in leading 
armies. Only the hundredth man does not prefer to dally 
where woman is easier to win, most finding the maids of 
honor a satisfactory substitute for the princess. So the boy in 
the street prefers two poor apples to a sound one. It may be 
the secret of England’s greatness. 

On this Christmas Day Mary Abinger came up the walk rap- 
idly, scorning herself for ever having admired Sir Clement 
Dowton. She did everything in the superlative degree, and 
so rather wondered that a thunder-bolt was not sent direct 
from above to kill hin^ — as if there were thunder-bolts for 
every one. If we got our deserts, most of us would be knocked 
on the head with a broomstick. 

When she was out of sight Eob’s courage returned, and he 
remembered that he was there in the hope of speaking to her. 
He hurried up the walk after her, but when he neared her he 
fell back in alarm. His heart was beating violently. He 
asked himself in a quaver what it was that he had arranged to 
say first. 

In her little basket Mary had Christmas presents for a few 
people, inhabitants of a knot of houses not far distant from 
the castle gates. They were her father’s tenants, and he 
rather enjoyed their being unable to pay much rent, it made 
them so dependent. Had Eob seen how she was received in 
some of these cottages, how she sat talking merrily with one 
bedridden old woman whom cheerfulness kept alive, and not 
only gave a disabled veteran a packet of tobacco, but filled his 
pipe for him, so that he gallantly said he was reluctant to 
smoke it (trust an old man for gallantry), and even eat pieces 
of strange cakes to please her hostesses, he would often have 
thought of it afterward. However, it would have been un- 
necessary prodigality to show him that, for his mind was filled 
with the incomparable manner in which she knocked at doors 
and smiled when she came out. Once she dropped her basket, 
and he could remember nothing so exquisite as her way of 
picking it up. 

Eob lurked behind trees and peered round hedges, watching 
Miss Abinger go from one house to another, but he could not 
shake himself free of the fear that all the world had its eye on 
him. Hitherto not his honesty, but its bluntness, had told 
against him (the honesty of a good many persons is only stu- 


WHEN" A MAK’S single. 


61 


e asserting itself), and now he had not the courage to be 
t. When any wayfarers approached, he whistled to the 
fields as if he had lost a dog in them, or walked smartly east- 
ward (until he- got round a corner) like one who was in a hurry 
to reach Sil Chester. He looked covertly at the few persons 
who passed him, to see if they were looking at him. A soli- 
tary crow fluttered into the air from behind a wall, and Rob 
started. In a night he had become self-conscious. 

At last Mary turned homeward, with the sun in her face. 
Rob was moving toward the hamlet when he saw her, and in 
spite of himself he came to a dead stop. He knew that if she 
passed inside the gates of the castle his last chance of speak- 
ing to her was gone; but it was not that which made him keep 
his ground. He was shaking as the thin boards used to do 
' ' ‘ ^ ' circular saw. His mind, in short, 



On other occasions Mary would not have thought of doing 
more than bow to Rob, but he had Christmas Day in his favor, 
and she smiled. 

“ A happy Christmas to you, Mr. Angus,’’ she said, hold- 
ing out her hand. 

It was then that Rob lifted his hat, and overcame his up- 
bringing. His unaccustomed fingers insisted on lifting it in 
such a cautious way that, in a court of law, it could have been 
argued that he was only planting it more firmly on his head. 
He did not do it well, but he did it. Some men would have 
succumbed altogether on realizing so sharply that it is not 
women who are terrible, but a woman. Here is a clear case 
in which the part is greater than the whole. 

Rob would have liked to wish Miss Abinger a happy Christ- 
mas too, but the words would not form, and had she chosen 
she could have left him looking very foolish. But Mary had 
blushed slightly when she caught sight of Rob standing help- 
lessly in the middle of the road, and this meant that she under- 
stood what he was doing there. A girl can overlook a great 
deal in a man who admires her. She feels happier. It in- 
creases her self-respect. So Miss Abinger told him that if the 
frost held the snow would soon harden, but if a thaw came it 
would melt; and then Rob tore out of himself the words that 
tended to slip back as they reached his tongue. 

‘‘ I don’t know how I could have done it,” he said, feebly, 
beginning at the end of what he had meant to say. There he 
struck again. 

Mary knew what he spoke of, and her pale face colored. 
She shrunk from talking of “ The Scorn of Scorns,” 


62 


WB.m A mak’s SIN-GLE. 


Please don’t let that trouble you/’ she said, with an 
effort. I was really only a school-girl when I wrote it, and 
Miss Meredith got it printed recently as a birthday surprise for 
me. I assure you I would never have thought of publishing 
it myself for — for people to read. School-girls, you know, 
Mr. Angus, are full of such silly sentiment.” 

A breeze of indignation shook “No, no!” out of Rob, but 
Mary did not heed. 

“ I know better now,” she said; “ indeed, not even you, 
the hardest of my critics, see more clearly than I the — the 
childishness of the book.” 

Miss Abinger’s voice faltered a very little, and Rob’s suffer- 
ings allowed him to break out. 

“No,” he said, with a look of appeal in his eyes that were 
as gray as hers, “ it was a madness that let me write like that. 
‘ The Scorn of Scorns ’ is the most beautiful, the tenderest — ” 
He stuck once more. Miss Abinger could have helped him 
again, but she did not. Perhaps she wanted him to go on. 
He could not do so, but he repeated what he had said already, 
which may have been the next best thing to do. 

“ You do surprise me now, Mr. Angus,” said Mary, light- 
hearted all at once, “for you know you scarcely wrote like 
that.” 

“Ah, but I have read the book since I saw you,” Rob 
blurted out, “ and that has made such a difference.” 

A wiser man might have said a more foolish thing. Mary 
looked up, smiling. Her curiosity was aroused, and at once 
she became merciless. Hitherto she had only tried to be kind 
to Rob, but now she wanted to be kind to herself. 

“You can hardly have reread my story since last night, 
she said, shaking her fair head demurely. 

“ I read it all through the night,” exclaimed Rob, in such 
a tone that Mary started. She had no desire to change the 
conversation, however; she did not start so much as that. 

“ But you had to write papa’s speech?” she said. 

“ I forgot to do it,” Rob answered, awkwardly. His heart 
sunk, for he saw that here was another cause he had given Miss 
Abinger to dislike him. Possibly he was wrong. There may 
be extenuating circumstances that will enable the best of 
daughters to overlook an affront to her father’s speeches. 

“ But it was in the Mirror. I read it,” said Mary. 

“Was it?” said Rob, considerably relieved. How it could 
have got there was less a mystery to him than to her, for 
Protheroe had subedited so many speeches to tenants^ that in 


WHEK A MAK^S SINGLE. 63 

an emergency he could always guess at what the landlords 
said. 

“It was rather short, Mary admitted, “ compared with 
the report in the Argus. Papa thought — ” She stopped 
hastily. 

“ He thought it should have been longer?’’ asked Rob. 
Then before he had time to think of it, he had told her of his 
first meeting with the colonel. 

“ I remember papa was angry at the time,” Mary said, 
“ but you need not have been afraid of his recognizing you 
last night. He did recognize you. ” 

“ D?d he?” 

“ Yes; but you were his guest. ” 

Rob could not think of anything more to say, and he saw 
that Mary was about to bid him good -morning. He found 
himself walking with her in the direction of the castle gates. 

“ This scenery reminds me of Scotland,” he said. 

“ I love it,” said Mary (man’s only excellence over woman 
is that his awe of this word prevents his using it so lightly), 
“ and I am glad that I shall be here until the season begins.” 

Rob had no idea what the season was, but he saw that some 
time Mary would be going away, and his face said, what 
would he do then? 

“ Then I go to London with the Merediths,” she continued, 
adding, thoughtfully: “ I suppose you mean to go to London, 
Mr. Angus? My brother says that all literary men drift 
there.” 

“ Yes, oh, yes,” said Rob. 

“ Soon?” 

“ Immediately,” he replied, recklessly. 

They reached the gates, and as Mary held out her hand the 
small basket was tilted upon her arm, and a card fluttered out. 

“ It is a Christmas card a little boy in one of those houses 
gave me,” she said, as Rob returned it to her. “ Have you 
got many Christmas cards to-day, Mr. Angus?” 

“ None,” said Rob. 

“ Not even from your relatives?” asked Mary, beginning 
to pity him more than was necessary. 

“ I have no relatives,” he replied; “ they are all dead.” 

“ I was in Scotland two summers ago,” Mary said, very 
softly, “ at a place called Glen Quharity; papa was there 
shooting. But I don’t suppose you know it?” 

“Our Glen Quharity!” exclaimed Rob, “ why, you must 
have passed through Thrums!” 

“We were several times in Thrums. Have you been there?” 


64 


WHEK A MAK’S SIKGLE. 


I was born in it; I was never thirty mile’s away from it 
until I came here.’’ 

“ Oh,” cried Mary, then you must be the literary — ” she 
stopped and reddened. 

‘‘ The literary saw-miller,” said Rob, finishing her sentence; 

that was what they called me, I know, at Glen Quharity 
Lodge.” 

Mary looked up at him with a new interest, for when she 
was there Glen Quharity had been full of the saw-miller who 
could not only talk in Greek, but had a reputation for tossing 
the caber. 

‘‘ Papa told me some months ago,” she said, in surprise, 
“ that the liter — , that you had joined the press in England, 
but he evidently did not know of your being in Silchester.” 

But how could he have known anything about me?’' 
asked Rob, surprised in turn. 

“ This is so strange,” Mary answered. Why, papa takes 
credit for having got you your appointment on the press.” 

‘‘ It was a minister, a Mr. Rorrison, who did that for me,” 
said Rob; “ indeed, he was so good that I could have joined 
the press a year ago by his help, had not circumstances com- 
pelled me to remain at home.” 

“ I did not know the clergyman’s name,” Mary said, but 
it was papa who spoke of you to him first. Don’t you re- 
member writing out this clergyman’s sermon in short-hand, 
and a messenger coming to you for your report on horseback 
next day?” 

Certainly I do,” said Rob, “ and he asked me to write it 
out in long-hand as quickly as possible. That was how I got 
to know Mr. Rorrison; and, as I understood, he had sent for 
the report of the sermon, on hearing accidentally that I had 
taken it down, because he had some reason for wanting a copy 
of it.” 

“ Perhaps that was how it was told to you afterward,” 
Mary said, “ but it was really papa who wanted the sermon.” 

“ I should like to know all about it,” Rob said, seeing that 
she hesitated. Colonel Abinger had not seemed to him that 
kind of man who would send a messenger on horseback about 
the country in quest of sermons. 

“ I am afraid,” Mary explained, “ that it arose out of a 
wager. This clergyman was staying at the Lodge, but papa 
was the only other person there who would go as far as 
Thrums to hear him preach. I was not there that year, so I 
don’t know why papa went, but when he returned he told the 
others that the sermon had been excellent. There is surely 


WHEN A MAK^S SINGLE. 


Go 


an English church in Thrums, for I was sure papa would not 
think a sermon excellent that was preached in a chapel 

‘‘There is/’ said Kob; “but in Thrums it is called the 
chapel.” 

“ Well, some badinage arose out of papa’s eulogy, and it 
ended in a bet that he could not tell the others what this fine 
sermon was about. He was to get a night to think it over. 
Papa took the bet a little rashly, for when he put it to himself 
he found that he could not even remember the text. As he 
told me afterward ” (here Mary smiled a little), “ he had a gen- 
eral idea of the sermon, but could not quite put it into words, 
and he was fearing that he would lose the wager (and be 
laughed at, which always vexes papa), when he heard of your 
report. So a messenger was sent to Thrums for it, and papa 
won his bet.” 

“ But how did Mr. Eorrison hear of my report, then?” 

“ Oh, I forgot; papa told him afterward, and was so pleased 
with his victory that when he heard Mr. Eorrison had influ- 
ence with some press people, he suggested to him that some- 
thing might be done for you.” 

“ This is strange,” said Eob, “and perhaps the strangest 
thing about it is that if Colonel Abinger could identify me 
with the saw- miller he would be sorry that he had interfered.” 

Mary saw the force of this so clearly that she could not con- 
tradict him. 

“ Surely,” she said, “ I heard when I was at the Lodge of 
your having a niece, and that you and the little child lived 
alone in the saw-mill.” 

“ Yes,” Eob answered, hoarsely, “but she is dead. She 
wandered from home, and was found dead on a mountain-side. ” 

“ Was it long ago?” asked Mary, very softly. 

“ Only a few months ago,” Eob said, making his answer as 
short as possible, for the death of Davy moved him still. “ She 
was only four years old. ” 

Mary’s hand went half-way toward his involuntarily. Hia 
mouth was twitching. He knew how good she was. 

“ That card,” he began, and hesitated. 

“ Oh, would you care to have it?” said Mary. 

But just then Colonel Abinger walked into them, somewhat 
amazed to see his daughter talking to one of the lower orders. 
Neither Eob nor Mary had any inclination to tell him that this 
was the Scotsman he had befriended. 

“This is Mr. Angus, papa,” said Mary, “ who — who was 
with us last night.” 

“ Mr. Angus and I have’ met before, I think/’ replied her 
3 


C6 


WHEN A man’s single. 


father, recalling the fishing episode. His brow darkened, and 
Rob was ready for anything, but Colonel Abinger was a gen- 
tleman. 

“ I alv7ays wanted to see you again, Mr. Angus, he said, 
with an effort, “ to ask you — what flies you were using that 
day?"^ 

Rob muttered something in answer, which the colonel did 
not try to catch. Mary smiled and bowed, and the next mo- 
ment she had disappeared with her father down the avenue. 

What followed can not be explained. When Rob roused 
himself from his amazement at Mary Abinger’ s having been 
in Thrums without his feeling her presence, something made 
him go a few yards inside the castle grounds, and, lying lightly 
on the snow, he saw the Christmas card. He lifted it up as if 
it were a rare piece of china, and held it in his two hands as 
though it were a bird which might escape. He did not know 
whether it had dropped there of its own accord, and doubt and 
transport fought for victory on his face. At last he put the 
card exultingly into his pocket, his chest heaved, and he went 
toward Silchester whistling. 


CHAPTER VIL 

THE GKAND PASSION. 

One of the disappointments of life is that the persons we 
think we have reason to dislike are seldom altogether villains; 
they are not made sufficiently big for it. When we can go to 
sleep in an arm-chair this ceases to be a trouble, but it vexed 
Mary Abinger. Her villain of fiction, on being haughtily re- 
jected, had at least left the heroine’s home looking a little 
cowed. Sir Clement in the same circumstances had stayed on. 

The ^colonel had looked forward resentfully for years to 
meeting this gentleman again, and giving him a piece of his 
stormy mind. When the opportunity came, however, Mary’s 
father instead asked his unexpected visitor to remain for a 
week. Colonel Abinger thought he was thus magnanimous 
because his guest had been confidential with him, but it was 



ourselves, and is therefore not common. 

The Dome had introduced the colonel to Sir Clement as 
well as to Rob. One day Colonel Abinger had received by 
letter from a little hostelry in the neighborhood the compli- 
ments of Sir Clement Dowton, and a request that he might be 


WHEK A man’s single. 


67 


allowed to fish in the preserved water. All that Mary’s father 
knew of Dowton at that time was that he had been lost to En- 
glish society for half a dozen years. Once in many months 
the papers spoke of him as serving under Gordon in China, as 
being taken captive by an African king, as having settled 
down in a cattle ranch in the vicinity of Manitoba. His law- 
yers were probably aware of his whereabouts oftener than 
other persons. All that society knew was that he hated Eng- 
land because one of its daughters had married a curate. The 
colonel called at the inn, and found Sir Clement such an at- 
tentive listener that he thought the baronet’s talk quite brill- 
iant. A few days afterward the stranger’s traps were removed 
to the castle, and then he met Miss Abinger, who was recently 
home from school. He never spoke to her of his grudge 
against England. 

It is only the unselfish men w’-ho think much, otherwise 
Colonel Abinger might have pondered a little over his guest. 
Dowton had spoken of himself as an enthusiastic angler, yet 
he let his flies drift down the stream like fallen leaves. He 
never remembered to go a-fishing until it was suggested to 
him. He had given his host several reasons for his long ab- 
sence from his property, and told him he did not want the 
world to know that he was back in England, as he was not 
certain whether he would remain. The colonel, at this request, 
introduced him to the few visitors at the castle as Mr. Dowton, 
and was surprised to discover afterward that they all knew his 
real name. 

‘‘I assure you,” Mary’s father said to him, ‘Hhat they 
have not learned it from me. It is incomprehensible how a 
thing like that leaks out.” 

‘‘ I don’t understand it,” said Dowton, who, however, 
should have understood it, as he had taken the visitors aside 
and told them his real name himself. He seemed to do thi» 
not of his free-will, but because he could not help it. 

It never struck the colonel that his own society was not 
what tied Sir Clement to Dome Castle; for widowers with 
grown-up daughters are in a foreign land without interpreters. 
On that morning, when the baronet vanished, nevertheless, 
the master of Dome Castle was the only person in it who did 
not think that it would soon lose its mistress, mere girl though 
she was. 

Sir Clement’s strange disappearance was accounted for at 
the castle, where alone it was properly known, in various ways. 
Miss Abinger, in the opinion of the servants’ hall, held her 
head so high that there he was belieyed to have run away be- 


WHEK A MAN^S SINGLE. 


6S 

cause she had said him no. Miss Abinger excused and blamed 
him alternately to herself until she found a dull satisfaction in 
looking upon him as the villain he might have been had his 
high forehead spoken true. As for the colonel, he ordered 
Mary (he had no need) never to mention the fellov/' s name to 
him, but mentioned it frequently himself. 

Nothing had happened, so far as was known, to disturb the 
baronet’s serenity; neither friends nor lawyers had been aware 
that he was in England, and he had received no letters. Many 
remembered his occasional fits of despondency, but on the 
whole he seemed to revel in his visit, and never looked happier 
than the night before he went. His traps were sent by the 
colonel in a fury to the little inn where he had first taken up 
his abode, but it was not known at the castle whether he ever 
got them. Some months afterward a letter from him appeared 
in the Times, dated from Suez, and from then until he reap- 
peared at Dome Castle, the colonel, except when he spoke to 
himself, never heard the baronet’s name mentioned. 

Sir Clement must have been very impulsive, for on returning 
to the castle he had intended to treat Miss Abinger with court- 
eous coldness, as if she had been responsible for his flight, and 
he had not seen her again for ten minutes before he asked her 
to marry him. He meant to explain his conduct in one way 
to the colonel, and he explained it in quite another way. 

When Colonel Abinger took him into the smoking-room on 
Christmas Eve to hear what he had to say for himself, the 
baronet sunk into a chair, with a look of contentment on his 
beautiful face that said he was glad to be there again. Then 
the colonel happened to mention Mary’s name in such a way 
that he seemed to know of Sir Clement’s j^roposal to her three 
years earlier. At once the baronet began another story from 
the one he had meant to tell, and though he soon discovered 
that he had credited his host with a knowledge the colonel did 
not possess, it was too late to draw back. So Mary’s father 
heard to his amazement that the baronet had run away be- 
cause he was in love with Miss Abinger. Colonel Abinger had 
read “ The Scorn of Scorns,” but it had taught him nothing. 

‘‘ She was only a school-girl when you saw her last,” he 
said, in bewilderment; but I hardly see how that should have 
made you fiy the house like — yes, like a thief.” 

Dowton looked sadly at liim. 

‘‘ I don’t know,” he said, speaking as if with reluctance, 

that in any circumstances I should be justified in telling 

r )u the whole miserable story. Can you not guess it? When 
came here I was not a free man.” 


WHEN A man’s single. 


69 


You were already married?” 

‘‘ No, but I was engaged to be married.” 

“ Did Mary know anything of tliis?” 

“ Nothing of that engagement, and but little, I think, of 
the attachment that grew up in my heart for her. I kept that 
to myself.” 

“ She was too young,” said the wise colonel, to think of 
such things then; and even now I do not see why you should 
have left us as you did.” 

Sir Clement rose to his feet and paced the room in great 
agitation. 

“ It is hard,” he said at last, to speak of such a thing to 
another man. But let me tell you, Abinger, that when I was 
with you three years ago there were times when I thought I 
would lose my reason. Do you know what it is to have such 
a passion as that raging in your heart and yet have to stifle 
it? There were whole nights when I walked up and down 
my room till dawn. I trembled every time I saw Miss Abin- 
ger alone lest I should say that to her which I had no right to 
say. Her voice alone was sufficient to unman me. I felt that 
my only safety was in flight.” 

“ I have run away from a woman, myself in my time,” the 
colonel said, with a grim chuckle. There are occasions when 
it is the one thing to do, but this was surely not one of them, 
if Mary knew nothing.” 

“ Sometimes I feared she did know that I cared for her. 
That is a hard thing to conceal, and, besides, I suppose I felt 
so wretched that I was not in a condition to act rationally. 
When I left the castle that day I had not the least intention of 
not returning.” 

“ And since then you have been half round the world 
again? Are you married?” 

‘‘No.” 

“ Then I am to understand — ” 

“ That she is dead,” said Sir Clement, in a low voice. 

There was a silence between them, which was at last broken 
by the colonel. 

“ What you have told me,” he said, “ is a great surprise, 
more especially with regard to my daughter. Being but $, 
child at the time, however, she could not, I am confident, 
have thought of you in any other light than as her father’s 
friend. It is, of course, on that footing that you return now?” 

“ As her father’s friend, certainly, I hope,” said dhe bar- 
onet, firmly; “ buf I wish to tell you now that my regard for 
her hs4s never changed. I eonfess I would have been afraid 


70 WHEN A MAN^S SINGLE. 

to come back to you had not my longing to see her again given 
me courage.^’ 

She has noi the least idea of this/^ murmured the colonel, 
‘‘ not the least. The fact is that Mary has lived so quietly 
with me that she is still a child. Miss Meredith, whom I dare 
say you have met here, has been almost her only friend, and I 
am quite certain that the thought of marriage has never 
crossed their minds. If you, or even I, were to speak of such 
a thing to Mary it would only frighten her.’’ 

I should not think of speaking to her on the subject at 
present,” the baronet interposed, rather hurriedly, ‘‘ but I 
thought it better to explain my position to you. You know 
what I am, that I have been almost a vagrant on the face of 
the earth since I reached manhood, but no one can see more 
clearly than I do myself how unworthy I am of her.” 

“ I do not need to tell you,” said the colonel, taking the 
baronet’s hand, ‘‘ that I used to like you, Dowton, and in- 
deed I know no one whom I would prefer for a son-in-law. 
But you must be cautious with Mary.” 

‘‘I shall be very cautious,” said the baronet; ^‘indeed, 
there is no hurry — none whatever.” 

Colonel Abinger would have brought the conversation to a 
close here, but there was something more for Dowton to say. 

“ I agree with you,” h'e said, forgetting, perhaps, that the 
colonel had not spoken on this point, “ that Miss Abinger 
should be kept ignorant for the present of the cause that 
drove me on that former occasion from the castle.” 

It is the wisest course to adopt,” said the colonel, looking 
as if he had thought the matter out step by step. 

“ The only thing I am doubtful about,” continued Dowton, 
“ is whether Miss Abinger will not think that she is entitled 
to some explanation. She can not, I fear, have forgotten the 
circumstances of my departure.” 

‘‘ Make your mind easy on that score,” said the. colonel; 
‘‘ the best proof that Mary gave the matter little thought even 
at the time, is that she did not speak of it to me. Sweet 
seventeen has always a short memory.” 

“ But I have sometimes thought since that Miss Abinger 
did care for me a little, in which case she would have unfortu- 
nate cause to resent my flight.” 

While he spoke the baronet was looking anxiously into the 
colonel’s face. 

“ I can give you my word for it,” said the colonel, cheerily, 
‘‘ that she did not give your disappearance two thoughts; and 
now I must question whether she will recognize j^ou.” 


WHEl^- A MAK’s single. 71 

Dowton’s face clouded, but the other misinterpreted the 
shadow. 

“ So put your mind at rest/^ said the colonel, kindly, “ and 
trust an old stager like myself fc^ being able to read into a 
woman’s heart. ” 

Shortly afterward Colonel Abinger left his guest, and for 
nearly five minutes the baronet looked dejected. It is some- 
times advantageous to hear that a lady with whom you have 
watched the moon rise has forgotten your very name, but it is 
never complimentary. By and by, however, Sir Clement’s 
sense of humor drove the gloom from his chiseled face, and a 
glass bracket over the mantel-piece told him that he was 
laughing heartily. 

It was a small breakfast-party at the castle next morning. 
Sir Clement and Creybrooke being the only guests; but the 
baronet was so gay and morose by turns that he might have 
been two persons. In the middle of a laugh at some remark 
of the captain’s he would break off with a sigh, and immedi- 
ately after sadly declining another cup of coffee from Mary, he 
said something humorous to her father. The one mood was 
natural to him and the other forced, but it would have been 
difficult to decide which was which. It is, however, one of 
the hardest things in life to remain miserable for any length 
of time on a stretch. When Dowton found himself alone with 
Mary his fingers were playing an exhilarating tune on the 
window-sill, but as he looked at her his hands fell to his side, 
and there was pathos in his fine eyes. Drawn toward her, he 
took a step forward, but Miss Abinger said “ No ” so decisively 
that he stopped irresolute. 

“ I shall be leaving the castle in an hour,” Sir Clement said, 
slowly. 

‘‘ Papa told me,” said Mary, that he had prevailed upon 
you to remain for a week.” 

“ He pressed me to do so, and I consented, but you have 
changed everything since then. Ah, Mary — ” 

Miss Abinger,” said Mary. 

‘‘ Miss Abinger, if you would only listen to what I have to 
say. I can explain everything. I — ” 

‘‘ There is nothing to explain,” said Mary, nothing that 
I have either a right or a desire to hear. Please not to return 
to this subject again. I said everything there was to say last 
night.” 

The baronet’s face paled, and he bowed his head in deep 
dejection. His voice was trembling a little, and he observed 
it with gratification as he answered: 


n 


WHEK A MAljr^S SIKGLE. 


Then I suppose I must bid you good-bye?” 

‘‘ Good-bye,” said Mary. “ Does papa know you are go- 
ing?” 

‘‘ I promised him to stay on,” said Sir Clement, ‘‘ and I 
can hardly expect him to forgive me if I change my mind.” 

This was put almost in the form of a question, and Mary 
thought she understood it. 

“ Then you mean to remain?” she asked. 

“You compel me to go,” he replied, dolefully. 

“ Oh, no,” said Mary, “ I have nothing to do with your go- 
ing or staying.” 

“ But it — it would, hardly do for me to remain after what 
took place last night,” said the baronet, in the tone of one 
who was open to contradiction. 

For the first time in the conversation Mary smiled. It was 
not, however, fhe smile every man would care to see at his 
own expense. 

“ If you were to go now,” she said, “ you would not be 
fulfilling your promise to papa, and I know that men do not 
like to break their word to — to other men.” 

“ Then you think I ought to stay?” asked Sir Clement, 
eagerly. 

“ It is for you to think,” said Mary. 

“ Perhaps, then, I ought to remain — ^for Colonel Abinger’s 
sake,” said the baronet. 

Mary did not answer. 

“ Only for a few days,” he continued, almost appealingly. 

“ Very well,” said Mary. 

“And you won’t think the worse of me for it?” asked 
Dowton, anxiously. “ Of course, if I were to consult my own 
wishes I would go now, but as I promised Colonel Abinger — 

“You will remain out of consideration for papa. How 
could I think worse of you for that?” 

Mary rose to leave the room, and as Sir Clement opened the 
door for her, he said : 

“We shall say nothing of all this to Colonel Abinger?” 

“ Oh, no, certainly not,” said Mary. 

She glanced up in his face, her mouth twisted slightly to 
one side, as it had a habit of doing when she felt disdainful, 
and the glory of her beauty filled him of a sudden. The 
baronet pushed the door close and turned to her passionately, 
a film over his eyes, and his hands outstretched. 

“ Mary,” he cried, “ is there no hope for me?” 

“No,” said Mary, opening the door- for herself, and passing 
out. 


WHEN A man’s single. 


73 

Sir Clement stood there motionless for a minute. Then he 
crossed to the fire-place, and sunk into a luxuriously cushioned 
chair. The sunlight came baok to his noble face. 

This is grand, glorious/^ he murmured, in an ecstasy of 
enjoyment. 

In the days that followed, the baronet’s behavior was a little 
peculiar. Occasionally at meals he seemed to remember that 
a rejected lover ought not to have a good appetite. If, when 
he was smoking in the grounds, he saw Mary approaching, he 
covertly dropped his cigar. When he knew that she was 
sitting at a window he would pace up and down the walk with 
his head bent as if life had lost interest to him. By and by 
his mind wandered, on these occasions, to more cheerful mat- 
ters, and he would start to find that he had been smiling to 
himself and swishing his cane playfully, like a man who walked 
on air. It might have been said of him that he tried to be 
miserable and found it hard work. 

Will, who discovered that the baronet did not know what 1. 
b. w. meant, could not, nevertheless, despise a man who had 
shot lions; but he never had quite the same respect for the 
king of beasts again. As for Greybrooke, he rather liked Sir 
Clement, because he knew that Nell (in her own words) 

loathed, hated, and despised ’’ him. 

Greybrooke had two severe disappointments that holiday, 
both of which were to be traced to the capricious Nell. It h^ 
dawned on him that she could not help liking him a little if 
she saw him take a famous jump over the Dome, known to 
legend as the Robber’s Leap.” The robber had lost his life 
in trying to leap the stream, but the captain practiced in the 
castle grounds until he felt that he could clear it. Then he 
formally invited Miss Meredith to come and see him do it, and 
she told him instead that he was wicked. The captain and 
Will went back silently to the castle, wondering what on earth 
she would like. 

Greybrooke’s other disappointment was still more grievous. 
One evening he and Will returned to the castle late for dinner 
— an offense the colonel found it hard to overlook, although 
they were going back to school on the following day. Will 
reached the dining-room first, and his father frowned on him. 

“You are a quarter of an hour late, William,” said the 
colonel, sternly. “ Where have you been?” 

Will hesitated. 

“ Do you remember,” he said at last, “ a man called 
Ang us, who was here reporting on Christmas Eve?” 

Mary laid down her knife and fork. 


74 


WHEN A man’s single. 


“ A painfull}^ powerful-looking man/’ said Dowton, in 
hobnailed boots. I remember him.” 

Well, we have been calling on him,” said Will. 

Calling on him — called on that impudent newspaper man!” 
exclaimed the colonel; ‘‘ what do you mean?” 

“ Greybrooke had a row with him some time ago,” said 
Will; ‘‘ I don’t know what about, because it was private; but 
the captain had been looking for the fellow for a fortnight to 
lick him — I mean punish him. We came upon him two days 
ago near the castle gates.” 

Here Will paused, as if he would prefer to jump what fol- 
lowed. 

‘‘ And did your friend ‘ lick ’ him then?” asked the colonel, 
at which Will shook his head. 

‘‘ Why not?” asked Sir Clement. 

“Well,” said Will, reluctantly, ^Hhe fellow wouldn’t let 
him. He — he lifted Greybrooke up in his arms, and — and 
dropped him over the hedge.” . 

l^ary could not help laughing. 

“ The beggar — I mean the fellow — must have muscles like 
ivy roots,” Will blurted out admiringly. 

“ I fancy,” said Dowton, “ that 1 have seen him near the 
gates several times during the last week.” 

“ Very likely,” said the colonel, shortly. “ I caught him 
poaching in the Dome some months ago. There is something 
bad about that man.” 

“ Papa!” said Mary. 

At this moment Greybrooke entered. 

“ So, Mr. Greybrooke,”. said the colonel, “ I hear you have 
been in Silchester avenging an insult.” 

The captain looked at Will, who nodded. 

“ I went there,” admitted Greybrooke, blushing, “ to horse- 
whip a reporter fellow, but he had run away.” 

“ Pun away?” 

“Yes. Did not Will tell you? We called at the Mirror 
office, and were told that Angus had bolted to London two 
days ago.” 

“ And the worst of it,” interposed Will, “ is that he ran 
off without paying his landlady’s bill.” 

“ I knew that man was a rascal,” exclaimed the colonel. 

Ma^ry flushed. 

“ I don’t believe it,” she said. 

“You don’t believe it,” repeated her father, angrily; “ and 
why not, pray?” 

^ “ Because — because I don’t,” said Mary. 


WHEN A MAN^S SINGLE. 


75 


CHAPTER VIII. 

IN FLEET S-TEEET. 

Maey was wrong. It was quite true that Rob had run 
away to London without paying his landlady’s bill. 

The immediate result of his meeting with Miss Abinger had 
been to make him undertake double work, and not do it. 
Looking in at shop- windows, where he saw hats that he 
thought would just suit Mary (he had a good deal to learn 
yet), it came upon him that he was wasting his time. Then 
he hurried home, contemptuous of all the rest of Silchester, 
to write an article for a London paper, and when he next 
came to himself, half an hour afterward, he was sitting before 
a blank sheet of copy-j)aper. He began to review a book, 
and found himself gazing at a Christmas card. He tried to 
think out the action of a government, and thought out a ring 
on Miss Abinger’s finger instead. Three nights running he 
dreamed that he was married, and woke up quaking. 

Without much misgiving Rob heard it said in Silchester 
that there was some one staying at Dome Castle who was to 
be its mistress’s husband. On discovering that they referred 
to Dowton, and not being versed in the wonderful ways of 
woman, he told himself that this was impossible, A cynic 
would have pointed out that Mary had now had several days 
in which to change her mind. Cynics are persons who make 
themselves the measure of other people. 

The philosopher who remarked that the obvious truths are 
those which are most often missed, was probably referring to 
the time it takes a man to discover that he is in love. Women 
are quicker, because they are on the outlook. It took Rob two 
days, and when it came upon him it checked his breathing. 
After that he bore it like a man. Another discovery he hSi 
to make was that, after all, he was nobody in particular. This 
took him longer. 

Although the manner of his going to London was unex- 
pected, Rob had thought out solidly the inducements to go. 
Ten minutes or so after he knew that he wanted to marry 
Mary Abinger he made up his mind to try to do it. The only 
obstacles he saw in his way were that she was not in love with 
him, and lack of income. Feeling that he was an uncommon 
type of man (if people would only see it), he resolved to re- 
move this second difficulty first. The saw-mill and the castle 
jud« by side did not rise up and frighten him, and for the time 




WHEN A man’s single. 


he succeeded in not thinking about Colonel Abinger. Nothing 
is hopeless if we want it very much. 

Rob calculated that if he remained on the Mirror for an- 
other dozen years or so, and Mr, Licquorish continued to think 
that it would not be cheaper to do without him, he might reach 
a salary of two hundred pounds per annum. As that was not 
sufficient, he made up his mind to leave Silchester. 

There was only one place to go to. Rob thought of London 
until he felt that it was the guardian from whom he would 
have to ask Mary Abinger; he pictured her there during the 
season, until London, which he had never seen, began to as- 
sume a homely aspect. It was the place in which he was to 
win or lose his battle. To whom is London much more? It 
is the clergyman’s name for his church, the lawyer’s for his 
office, the politician’s for St. Stephen’s, the cabman’s for his 
stand. 

There was not a man on the press in Silchester who did not 
hunger for Fleet Street; but they were all afraid to beard it. 
They knew it as a rabbit-warren; as the closest street in a 
city where the boot-black has his sycophants, and you have to 
battle for exclusive right to sweep a crossing. The fight for- 
ward had been grimmer to Rob, however, than to his fellows, 
and he had never been quite beaten. He was alone in the 
world, and poverty was like an old friend. There was only 
one journalist in London whom he knew even by name, and 
he wrote to him for advice. This was Mr. John Rorrison, a 
son of the minister whose assistance had brought Rob to Sil- 
chester. Rorrison was understood to be practicaUy editing a 
great London newspaper, which is what is understood of a 
great many journalists until you make inquiries, but he wrote 
back to Rob asking him why he wanted to die before his time. 
You collectors who want an editor’s autograph may rely upon 
having it by return of post if you write threatening to come to 
London with the hope that he will do something for you. 
Rorrison’s answer discomfited Rob for five minutes, and then, 
going out, he caught a glimpse of Mary Abinger in the Mere- 
diths’ carriage. He tore up the letter, and saw that London 
was worth risking. 

One forenoon Rob set out for the office to tell Mr. Licquor- 
ish of his determination. He knew that the entire staff would 
think him demented, but he could not see that he was acting 
rashly. He had worked it all out in his mind, and even tran- 
quilly faced possible starvation. Rob was congratulating him- 
Belf on not having given way to impulse when he reached the 
railway-station. 


WHEK A MAK’s single. 


77 


His way from his lodgings to the office led past the station, 
and as he had done scores of times before, he went inside. To 
Eob all the romance of Silchester was concentrated there; noth- 
ing stirred him so much as a panting^ engine; the shunting of 
carriages, the bustle of passengers, tfie porters rattling to and 
fro with luggage, the trains twisting serpent-like into the sta- 
tion and stealing out in a glory to be gone, sent the blood to 
his head. On Saturday nights, when he was free, any one 
calling at the station would have been sure to find him on the 
platform from which the train starts for London. His heart 
had sunk every time it went off without him. 

Eob woke up from a dream of Fleet Street to see the por- 
ters slamming the doors of the London train. He saw the 
guard^s hand upraised, and heard the carriages rattle as the 
restive engine took them unawares. Then came the warning 
whistle, and the train moved off. For a second of time Eob 
felt that he had lost London, and he started forward. Some 
one near him shouted, and then he came upon the train all at 
once, a door opened, and he shot in. When he came to him- 
self, Silchester was a cloud climbing to the sky behind him, 
and he was on his way to London. 

Eob^s first feeling was that the other people in the carriage 
must know what he had done. He was relieved to find that 
his companions were only an old gentleman who spoke fiercely 
to his newspaper because it was reluctant to turn inside out, a 
little girl who had got in at Silchester and consumed thirteen 
half-penny buns before she was five miles distant from it, and 
a young woman, evidently a nurse, with a baby in her arms. 
The baby was noisy for a time, but Eob gave it a look that 
kept it silent for the rest of the journey. He told himself that 
he would get out at the first station, but when the train 
stopped at it he sat on. He twisted himself into a corner to 
count his money covertly, and found that it came to four 
pounds odd. He also took the Christmas card from his pocket, 
but replaced it hastily, feeling that the old gentleman and the 
little girl were looking at him. A feeling of elation grew 
upon him as he saw that whatever might happen afterward he 
must be in London shortly, and his mind ran on the letters he 
would write to Mr. Licquorish and to his landlady. In lieu of 
his ticket he handed over twelve shillings to the guard, under 
whose eyes he did not feel comfortable, and he calculated that 
he owed his landlady over two pounds. He would send it to 
her and ask her to forward his things to London. Mr. Lic- 
quorish, however, might threaten him with the law if he did 
not return. But then the Mirror owed Eob several pounds at 


n 


.WHEK A man’s single. 


/ * 

/ 


that moment, and if he did not claim it in person it would 
remain in Mr. Licquorish'^s pockets. There was no saying 
how far that consideration would affect the editor. Rob saw 
a charge of dishonesty rise up and confront him, and he drew 
back from it. A moment afterward he looked it in the face, 
and he receded. He took his pipe from his pocket. 

This is not a smoking-carriage,’’ gasped the little girl, so 
promptly that it almost seemed as if she had been waiting her 
opportunity ever since the train started. Rob looked at her. 
She seemed about eight, but her eye was merciless. He 
thrust his pipe back into its case, feeling cowed at last. 

The nurse, who had been looking at Rob and blushing when 
she caught his eye, got out with her charge at a side station, 
and he helped her rather awkwardly to alight. “ Don’t men- 
tion it,” he said, in answer to her thanks. 

Not a word; I’m not that kind,” she replied, so eagerly 
that he started back in alarm, to find the little girl looking 
suspiciously at him. 

As Rob stepped out of the train at King’s Cross he realized 
sharply that he was alone in the world. He did not know 
where to go now, and his heart sunk for a time as he paced 
the platform irresolutely, feeling that it was his last link to 
Silchester. He turned into the booking-office to consult a 
time-able, and noticed against the wall a railway map of Lon- 
don. For a long time he stood looking at it, and as he traced 
the river, the streets familiar to him by name, the districts and 
buildings which were household words to liim, he felt that he 
must live in London somehow. He discovered Fleet Street in 
the map, and studied the best way of getting to it from King’s 
Cross. Then grasping his stick firmly, he took possession of 
London as calmly as he could. 

Rob never found any difficulty afterward in picking out the 
shabby eating-house in which he had his first meal in London. 
Gray’s Inn Road remained to him always its most romantic 
street because he went down it first. He walked into the roar 
of London in Holborn, and never forgot the alley into which 
he retreated to discover if he had suddenly become deaf. He 
wondered when the crowd would pass. Years afterward he 
turned into Fetter Lane, and suddenly there came back to his 
mind the thoughts that had held him as he went down it the 
day he arrived in London. 

A certain awe came upon Rob as he went down Fleet Street 
on the one side, and up it on the other. He could not resist 
looking into the faces of the persons who passed him, and 
wondered if they edited the Times. The lean man who was 


WHEN" X mail’s single. 


79 


in such a hurry that wherever he had to go he would soon be 
there, might be a man of letters whom Rob knew by heart, 
but perhaps he was only a broken journalist with his eye on 
half a crown. The mild-looking man whom Rob smiled at 
because, when he was half-way across" the street, he lost his 
head and was chased out of sight by half a dozen hansom cabs, 
was a war correspondent who had been so long in Africa that 
the perils of a London crossing unmanned him. The youth 
who was on his way home with a pork chop in his pocket ed- 
ited a society journal. Rob did not recognize a distinguished 
poet in a little stout man who was looking pensively at a bar- 
rowful of walnuts, and he was mistaken in thinking that the 
bearded gentleman who held his head so high must be some- 
body in particular. Rob observed a pale young man gazing 
wistfully at him, and wondered if he was a thief or a subed- 
itor. He was merely an aspirant who had come to London 
that morning to make his fortune, and he took Rob for a 
leader writer at the least. The offices, however, and even the 
public buildings, the shops, the narrowness of the streets, all 
disappointed Rob. The houses seemed squeezed together for 
economy of space, Hke a closed concertina. Nothing quite 
fulfilled his expectations but the big letter-holes in the district 
post-offices. He had not been sufficiently long in London to 
feel its greatest charms, which has been expressed in many ways 
by poet, wit, business man, philosopher, but comes to this, 
that it is the only city in the world in whose streets you can 
eat penny buns without people turning round to look at you. 

In a few days Rob was part of London. His Silchester land- 
lady had forwarded him his things, and Mr. Licquorish had 
washed his hands of him. The editor of the Mirror^ s letter 
amounted to a lament that a man whom he had allowed to do 
two men’s work for half a man’s wages should have treated 
him thus. Mr. Licquorish, however, had conceived the idea 
of “ forcing ” John Milton, and so saving a reporter, and he 
did not insist on Rob’s returning. He expressed a hope that 
his ex-reporter would do well in London, and a fear, amount- 
ing to a conviction, that he would not. But he sent the three 
pounds due to him in wages, pointing out, justifiably enough, 
that, strictly speaking, Rob owed him a month’s salary. Rob 
had not expected such liberality, and from that time always 
admitted that there must have been an heroic vein in Mr. 
Licquorish after all. 

Rob established himself in a little back room in Islington, 
so small that a fairly truthful joui-nalist might have said of 
it, in an article, that you had to climb the table to reach the 


80 


WHEN A MAN S SINGLE. 


fire-place, and to lift out the easy-chair before you could get 
out at the door. The room was over a grocer^s shop, whose 
window bore the announcement: ‘‘Eggs, new laid. Is. ; 
eggs, fresh. Is. eggs, warranted. Is.; eggs, 10^/.*^ A 
shop across the way hinted at the reputation of the neighbor- 
hood in the polite placard, “ Trust in the Lord: every other 
person cash.^’ 

The only ornament Eob added to the room was the Christ- 
mas card in a frame. He placed this on his mantel-piece and 
looked at it frequently, but when he heard his landlady com- 
ing he slipped it back into his pocket. Yet he would have 
liked at times to have the courage to leave it there. Though 
he wanted tb be a literary man, he began his career in London 
with a little sense, for he wrote articles to editors instead of 
calling at the offices, and he had the good fortune to have no 
introductions. The only press-man who ever made anything 
by insisting on seeing the editor was one — a Scotsman, no 
doubt — who got him alone and threatened to break his head 
if he did not find an opening for him. The editor saw that 
this was the sort of man who had made up liis mind to get on, 
and yielded. 

Luring his first month in London, Rob wrote thirty arti- 
cles, and took them to the different offices in order to save the 
postage. There were many other men in the streets at night 
doing the same thing. He got fifteen articles back by return 
of post, and never saw the others again. But here was the 
stuff Rob was made of: The thirty having been rejected, he 
dined on bread and cheese, and began the thirty-first. It was 
accepted by the Minotaur, a weekly paper. Rob drew a sigh 
of exultation as he got his first proof in London, and remem- 
bered that he had written the article in two hours. The pay- 
ment, he understood, would be two pounds at least, and at the 
rate of two articles a day, working six days a week, this would 
mean over six hundred a year. Rob had another look at the 
Christmas card, and thought it smiled. Every man is a fool 
now and then. 

Except to his landlady, who thought that he dined out, Rob 
had not spoken to a soul since he arrived in London. To 
celebrate his first proof he resolved to call on Rorrison. He 
had not done so earlier because he thought that Rorrison 
would not be glad to see him. Though he had kept his disap- 
pointments to himself, however, he felt that he must remark 
cfisually to some one that he was w'riting for the Mmotaur. 

Rorrison had chambers at the top of one of the Inns of 
Court, and as he had sported his oak, Rob ought not to have 


WHEN A man’s single. 


81 


knocked. He knew no better, however, and Horrison came 
grumbling to the door. He was a full-bodied man of middle 
age, with a noticeably heavy chin, , and wore a long dressing- 
gown. 

“I’m Angus from Silchester,” Rob explained. 

Rorrison's countenance fell. His occupation largely con- 
sisted in avoiding literary young men, who, he knew, were 
thirsting to take him aside and ask him to get them subeditor- 
ships. 

“ I’m glad to see you,” he said, gloomily; “ come in.” 

What Rob first noticed in the sitting-room was that it was 
all in shadow, except one corner, whose many colors dazzled 
the eye. Suspended over this part of the room on a gas 
bracket was a great Japanese umbrella without a handle. 
This formed an awning for a large cane chair and a tobacco- 
table, which also held a lamp, and Rorrison had been lolling 
on the chair looking at a Gladstone bag on the hearth-rug until 
he felt that he was busy packing. 

“ Mind the umbrella,” he said to his visitor. 

The next moment a little black hole that had been widen- 
ing in the Japanese paper just above the lamp cracked and 
broke, and a tongue of flame swept up the umbrella. Rob 
sprung forward in horror, but Rorrison only sighed. 

“ That makes the third this week,” he said, “but let it 
blaze. I used to think they would set the place on fire, but 
somehow they don’t do it. Don’t give the thing the satisfac- 
tion of seeming to notice it.” 

The umbrella had been frizzled in a second, and its particles 
were already trembling through the room like flakes of snow. 

“You have just been in time to find me,” Rorrison said; 
“ I start to-morrow afternoon for Egypt in the special cor- 
respondent business.” 

“ I envy you,” said Rob, and then told the manner of hia 
coming to London. 

“ It was a mad thing to do,” said Rorrison, looking at him 
not without approval, “ but the best journalists frequently be- 
gin in that way. I suppose you have been besieging the news- 
paper offices since you arrived; any result.^” 

“ I had a proof from the Minotaur this evening,” said Rob. 

Rorrison blew some rii^s of smoke into the air and ran his 
fingers through them. Then he turned proudly to Rob, and 
saw that Rob was looking proudly at him. 

“ Ah, what did you say?” asked Rorrison. 

“ The Minotaur has accepted one of my things,” said Rob. 

Rorrison said “ Hum,” and then hesitated. 


82 


WHEN A man’s single. 


‘‘It is best that yon should know the truth,” he said at 
last. “No doubt you expect to be paid by the Minotaur, but 
r am afraid there is little hope of that — unless you dun them. 
A friend of mine sent them something lately, and Eoper (the 
editor, you know), wrote asking him for more. He sent two 
or three other things, and then called at the office, expecting 
to be paid.” 

Was he not?” 

“ On the contrary,” said Rorrison, “ Roper asked him for 
the loan of five pounds.” 

Rob’s face grew so long that even the hardened Rorrison 
tried to feel for him. 

“You need not let an experience that every one has to pass 
through dishearten you,^’ he said. “ There are only about a 
dozen papers in London that are worth writing for, but I can 
give you a good account of them. Not only do they pay hand- 
somely, but the majority are open to contributions from any 
one. Don’t you believe what one reads about newspaper rings. 
Everything sent in is looked at, and if it is suitable any editor 
is glad to have it. Men fail to get a footing on the press be- 
cause — well, as a rule, because they are stupid.” 

“ I am glad to hear you say that,” said Rob, “ and yet I 
had thirty articles rejected before the Minotaur accepted that 
one.” 

“ Yes, and you will have another thirty rejected if they are 
of the same kind. You beginners seem able to write nothing 
but your views on politics, and your reflections on art, and 
your theories of life, which you sometimes even think original. 
Editors won’t have that, because their readers don’t want it. 
Every paper has its regular staff of leader writers, and what is 
wanted from the outside is freshness. An editor tosses aside 
your column and a half about evolution, but is glad to have a 
paragraph saying that you saw Herbert Spencer the day be- 
fore yesterday gazing solemnly for ten minutes in at a milli- 
ner’s window. Fleet Street at this moment is simply running 
with men who want to air their views about things in general.” 

“ I suppose so,” said Rob, dolefully. 

“ Yes, and each thinks himself as original as he is profound, 
though they have only to meet to discover that they repeat each 
other. The pity of it is that all of them could get on to some 
extent if they would send in what is wanted. There is copy 
in every man you meet, and, as a journalist on this stair says, 
when you do meet him you feel inclined to tear it out of him 
and use it yourself.” 

“ What sort of copy?” asked Rob. 


WEEK A MAK’S single. 


83 


‘‘ They should write of things they have seen. Newspaper 
readers have an insatiable appetite for knowing how that part 
of the world lives with which they are not familiar. They 
want to know how the Norwegians cook their dinners, and 
build their houses and ask each other in marriage.” 

“ But I have never been out of Britain.” 

“ Neither was Shakespeare. There are thousands of arti- 
cles in Scotland yet. You must know a good deal about the 
Scottish weavers — well, there are articles in them. Describe 
the daily life of a gillie: ‘ Gillie at Home ’ is a promising title. 
Were you ever snowed-up in your saw-mill? Whether you 
were or not, there is a seasonable subject for January. ‘ Yule 
in a Scottish Village ^ also sounds well, and there is a safe 
article in a Highland gathering.” 

“ These must have been done before, though,” said Rob. 

Of course they have,” answered Rorrison; but do them 
in your own w^ay; the public has no memory, and, besides, 
new publics are always springing up.” 

I am glad I came to see you,” said Rob, brightening con- 
siderably; ‘‘ I never thought of these things.” 

Of course you need not confine yourself to them. Write 
on politics if you will, but don’t merely say what you yourself 
think; rather tell, for instance, what is the political situation in 
the country parts known to you. That should be more interest- 
ing and valuable than your individual views. But I may tell 
you that if you have the journalistic faculty you will always be 
on the lookout for possible articles. The man on this stair I 
have mentioned to you would have had an article out of you 
before he had talked with you as long as I have done. You 
must have heard of Noble Simms?” 

“ Yes, I know his novel,” said Rob; ‘‘ I should like im- 
mensely to meet him.” 

‘‘ I must leave you an introduction to him,” said Rorrison; 
‘‘ he wakens most people up, though you would scarcely think 
it to look at him. You see this pipe here? Simms saw me 
mending it with sealing-wax one day, and two days afterward 
there was an article about it in the Scalping Knife. When I 
went off for my holidays last summer 1 asked him to look in 
here occasionally and turn a new cheese which had been sent 
me from the country. Of course he forgot to do it, but I de- 
nounced him on my return for not keeping his solemn prom- 
ise, so he revenged himself by publishing an article entitled 
‘ Rorrison’s Oil Painting.’ In this it was explained that just 
before Rorrison went off for a holiday he got a present of an 
oil painting. Remembering when he had got to Paris that 


84 


WHEK A man’s single. 


the painting, which had come to him wet from the easel, had 
been left lying on his table, he telegraphed to the writer to 
have it put away out of reach of dust and the heat. The 
writer promised to do so, but when Rorrison returned he found 
the picture lying just where he left it. He rushed off to his 
friend’s room to upbraid him, and did it so effectually that 
the friend says in his article, ‘ I will never do a good turn for 
Rorrison again!’ ” 

But why,” asked Rob, “ did he turn the cheese into an 
oil painting?” 

“ Ah, there you have the journalistic instinct again. You 
see, a cheese is too plebeian a thing to form the subject of an 
article in the Scalping Knife, so Simms made a painting of 
it. He has had my Chinese umbrella from several points of 
view in three different papers. When I play on his piano I 
put scraps of paper on the notes to guide me, and he made 
his three guineas out of that. Once I challenged him to write 
an article on a straw that was sticking to the sill of my win- 
dow, and it was one of the most interesting things he ever did. 
Then there was the box of old clothes and other odds and ends 
that he promised to store for me when I changed my rooms. 
He sold the lot to a hawker for a pair of flower-pots, and 
wrote an article on the transaction. Subsequently he had an- 
other article on the flower-pots; and when I appeared to claim 
my belongings he got a third article out of that.” 

‘‘ I suppose he reads a great deal?” said Rob. 

‘‘ He seldom opens a book,” answered Rorrison; indeed, 
when he requires to consult a work of reference he goes to the 
Strand and does his reading at a book-stall. . I don’t think 
he was ever in the British Museum.” 

Rob laughed. 

“ At the same time,” he said, ‘‘ I don’t think Mr. Noble 
Simms could get any copy out of me. ” 

Just then some one shuffled into the passage, and the door 
opened. 


CHAPTER IX. 

ME. NOBLE SIMMS. 

The new-comer was a young man with an impassive face 
and weary eyes, who, as he slouched in, described a parabola 
in the air with one of his feet, which was his way of keeping a 
burned slipper on. Rorrison introduced him to Rob as Mr. 
Noble Simms, after which Simms took himself into a corner 
of the room, like a man who has paid for his seat in a railway 


A MAK^S SIKOLE. 


85 


compartment and refuses to be drawn into conversation. He 
would have been a handsome man had he had a little more in- 
terest in himself. 

‘‘ I thought you told me you were going out to-night?’^ said 
Rorrison. 

“ I meant to go,” Simms answered, but when I rang for 
my boots the housekeeper thought I asked for water, and 
brought it, so, rather than explain matters to her, I drank the 
water and remained in-doors.” 

“ I read your book lately, Mr. Simms,” Rob said, after he 
had helped himself to tobacco from Simms’s pouch — Try 
my tobacco ” being the press form of salutation. 

‘‘You did not buy the second volume, did you?” asked 
Simms, with a show of interest, and Rob had to admit that he 
got the novel from a library. 

“ Excuse my asking you,” Simms continued, in his pain- 
fully low voice; “ I had a special reason. You see, I happen 
to know that besides what went to the libraries, there were in 
all six copies of my book sold. My admirer bought two, and 
I myself bought three and two thirds, so that only one volume 
remains to be accounted for. I like to think that the pur- 
chaser was a lady.” 

“ But how did it come about,” inquired Rob, while Rorri- 
son smoked on impertm'bably, “ that the volumes were on 
sale singly?” 

“ That was to tempt a public,” said Simms, gravely, “ who 
would not take kindly to the three volumes together. It is a 
long story, though. ” 

Here he paused, as if anxious to escape out of the conversa- 
tion. 

“ No blarney, Simms,” expostulated Rorrison. “ I forgot 
to tell you, Angus, that this man always means (when he hap- 
pens to have a meaning) the reverse of what he says.” 

“ Don’t mind Rorrison,” said Simms to Rob. “ It was in 
this way: My great work of fiction did fairly well at the libra- 
ries, owing to a mistake Mudie made about the name. He 
ordered a number of copies, under the impression that the 
book was by the popular novelist, Simmons, and when the 
mistake was found out he was too honorable to draw back. 
The surplus copies, however, would not sell at all. My pub- 
lisher offered them as Saturday evening presents to his young 
men, but they always left them on their desks; so next he 
tried the second-hand book-shops, in the hope that people 
from the country would buy the three volumes because they 
looked so cheap at two shillings. However, even the label. 


86 


WHEK A man’s single. 


‘ Published at 31s-. 6t?.; offered for 2.-?./ was barren of results. 
I used to stand in an alley near one of these book-shops, an4 
watch the people handling my novel.” 

“ But no one made an offer for it?” 

Not at two shillings; but when it came down to one-and- 
sixpence an elderly man with spectacles very nearly bought it. 
He was undecided between it and a trigonometry, but in the 
end he went off with the trigonometry. Then a young lady 
in gray and pink seemed interested in it. I watched her read- 
ing the bit about Lord John entering the drawing-room sud- 
denly and finding Henry on his knees, and once I distinctly 
saw her smile.” 

‘‘ She might have bought the novel if only to see how it 
ended.” 

‘‘ Ah, I have always been of opinion that she would have 
done, so, had she not most unfortunately, in her eagerness to 
learn what Henry said when he and Eleanor went into the 
conservatory, knocked a row of books over with her elbow. 
That frightened her, and she took to fiight.” 

‘‘ Most unfortunate,” said Rob, solemnly, though he was 
already beginning to understand Simms — as Simms was on the 
surface. 

‘‘ I had still greater disappointment,” continued the author, 

a few days afterward. By this time the book was marked 
‘ Very Amusing, l5. and when I saw a pale-looking 

young man, who had been examining it, enter the shop, I 
thought the novel was as good as sold. My excitement was 
intense when a shopman came out for the three volumes and 
carried them inside, but I was puzzled on seeing the young 
gentleman depart, apparently without having made a pur- 
chase. Consider my feelings when the shopman replaced the 
three volumes on his shelf with the new label, ‘ 924 pp., 8^Z.; 
worth l5.^ ” 

‘‘ Surely it found a purchaser now?” 

“ Alas, no. The only man who seemed to be attracted by 
it at eightpence turned out to be the author of ‘ John Mor- 
daunt’s Christmas-box’ (‘Thrilling! Published at Qs.j of- 
fered at l5. Bel), who was hanging about in the interests of 
his own work.” 

“ Hid it come down to ‘ Sixpence, worth ninepence?’ ” 

‘‘No; when I returned to the spot next day I found vol- 
umes One and Three in the ‘ 2d. any vol. ’ box, and I carried 
them away myself. What became of Volume Two I have 
never been able to discover. I rummaged the box for it in 
T»m.” 


WHEN A MAN^S SINGLE. 87 

“ As a matter lof fact, Angus/" remarked Rorrison, the 
novel is now in its third edition."" 

“ I always undpstood that it had done well/" said Rob. 

“ The fourth time I asked for it at Mudie"s/" said Simms, 
the latter half of whose sentences were sometimes scarcely 
audible, I inquired how it was going, and was told that it 
had been already asked for three times. Curiously enough, 
there is a general impression that it has been a great success, 
and for that I have thanked one man."" 

“ The admirer of whom you spoke?"" 

‘‘ Yes, my admirer, as I love to call him. I first heard of 
him as a business gentleman living at Shepherd’s Bush, who 
spoke with rapture of my novel to any chance acquaintances 
he made on the top of "busses. Then my aunt told me that a 
young lady knew a stout man living at Shepherd’s Bush who 
could talk of nothing but my book; and on inquiry at my 
publisher’s I learned that a gentleman answering to this de- 
scription had bought two copies. I heard of my admirer from 
different quarters for the next month, until a great longing 
rose in me to see him, to ' clasp his hand, to ask ^vhat part of 
the book he liked best — at the least to walk up and down past 
his windows, feeling that two men who appreciated each other 
were only separated by a pane of glass.” 

‘‘ Did you ever discover who he was?” 

‘‘I did. He lives at 42 Lavender Crescent, Shepherd’s 
Bush, and his name is Henry Gilding.” 

‘‘ Well?” said Rob, seeing Simms pause, as if this was all. 

I am afraid, Mr. Angus,” the author murmured in reply, 
‘‘ that you did not read the powerful and harrowing tale very 
carefully, or you would remember that my hero’s name was 
also Henry Gilding.” 

Well, but what of that?” 

There is everything in that. That is what made the Shep- 
herd "s Bush gentleman my admirer for life. He considers it 
the strangest and most diverting thing in his experience, and 
every night, I believe, after dinner, his eldest daughter has to 
read out to him the passages in which the Henry Gildings are 
thickest. He chuckles over the extraordinary coincidence 
still. He could take that joke with him to the sea-side for a 
month, and it would keep him in humor all the time.” 

Have done, Simms, have done,” said Rorrison; Angus 
is one of us, or wants to be, at all events. The Minotaur is 
printing one of his things, and 1 have been giving him somt 
sage aOTce."' 


88 


WHEK A man’s single. 


Any man/’ said Simms, “ will do well on the press if he 
is stupid enough; even Rorrison has done well.” 

‘‘ I have just been telling him/’ responded Rorrison, that 
the stupid men fail.” 

‘‘ I don’t consider you a failure, Rorrison,” said Simms, in 
mild surprise. “ What stock-in-trade a literary hand requires, 
Mr. Angus, is a fire to dry his writing at, jam or honey with 
which to gum old stamps on to envelopes, and an antima- 
cassar.” 

‘‘ An antimacassar?” Rob repeated. 

“ Yes; you pluck the thread with which to sew your copy 
together out of the antimacassar. When my antimacassars 
are at the wash 1 have to take a holiday.” 

‘‘Well, well, Simms,” said Rorrison. “I like you best 
when you are taciturn.” 

“ So do I,” said Simms. 

“You might give Angus some advice about the likeliest 
papers for which to write. London is new to him.’" 

“ The fact is, Mr. Angus,” said Simms, more seriously, 
“ that advice in such a matter is merely talk thrown away. 
If you have the journalistic instinct, which includes a deter- 
mination not to be beaten, as well as an aptitude for selecting 
the proper subjects, you will by and by find an editor who be- 
lieves in you. Many men of genuine literary ability have failed 
on the press because they did not have that instinct, and they 
have attacked journalism in their books in consequence.” 

“I am not sure that I know what the journalistic instinct 
precisely is,” Rob said, “ and still less whether I possess it.” 

“ Ah, just let me put you through your paces,” replied 
Simms. “ Suppose yourself up for an exam, in journalism, 
and that I am your examiner. Question One: ‘ The house 
was soon on fire; much sympathy is expressed with the suffer- 
ers.’ Can you translate that into newspaper English?” 

“ Let me see,” answered Rob, entering into the spirit of 
the examination. “ How would this do: ‘In a moment the 
edifice was enveloped in shooting tongues of flame; the appall- 
ing catastrophe has plunged the whole street into the gloom 
of night?’ ” 

“ Good. Question Two: A man hangs himself; what is the 
technical heading for this?” 

“ Either ‘ Shocking Occurrence ’ or ‘ Rash Act.’ ” 

“ Question Three: ‘ Pahidiim,^ ‘ Gela va sans dire,’ ‘ Par 
excellence,’ ‘ Ne plus ultra,’ What are these? AretWe any 
more of them?” 


WHEN A MAN^S SINGLE. 


89 


‘‘ They are scholarships/^ replied Itob, ‘‘ and there are two 
more, namely, ‘ tour de force ^ and ‘ terra firma.^ 

‘‘ Question Four: A. (a soJdier) dies at 6 p. m. with his back 
to the foe. B. (a philanthropist) dies at 1 A. m. ; which of 
these, speaking technically, would you call a creditable 
death?^’ 

“ The soldier’s, because time was given to set it.” 

“ Quite right. Question Five: Have you ever known a news- 
paper which did not have the largest circulation in its district, 
and was not the most influential advertising medium?” 

‘‘Never.” 

“ Question Six: Mr. Gladstone rises to speak in the House of 
Commons at 2 a. m. What would be the subeditor’s probable 
remark on receiving the opening words of the speech, and how 
would he break the news to the editor? How would the editor 
be likely to take it?” 

“ I prefer,” said Rob, “ not to answer that question.” 

“Well, Mr. Angus,” said Simms, tiring of the examination, 
“ you have passed with honors.” 

The conversation turned to Rorrison’s coming work in 
Egypt, and by and by Simms rose to go. 

“Your stick, I suppose, Mr. Angus?” he said, taking Rob’s 
thick staff from a corner. 

“ Yes,” answered Rob; “ it has only a heavy knob, you see, 
for a handle, and a doctor once told me that if I continued to 
press so heavily on it I might suffer from some disease in the 
palm of my hand.” 

“ I never heard of that,” said Simms, looking up for the 
first time since he entered the room. Then he added, “You 
should get a stick like Rorrison’s. It has a screw handle, 
which he keeps loose, so that the slightest touch knocks it off. 
It is called the compliment-stick, because if Rorrison is in the 
company of ladies, he contrives to get them to hold it. This 
is in the hope that they will knock the handle off, when Ror- 
rison bows and remarks exultingly that the stick is like its 
owner — when it came near them it lost its head. He has said 
that to fifteen ladies now, and has a great reputation for gal- 
lantry in consequence. Good-night. ” 

“ AVell, he did not get any copy out of me,” said Rob. 

“ Simms is a cuiious fellow,” Rorrison answered. “ Though 
you might not expect it, he has written some of the most pa- 
thetic things I ever read, but he wears his heart out of sight. 
Despite what he says, too, he is very jealous for the press’s 
good name. He seems to take to you, so I should not wonder 
if he were to look you up here some night. 


90 


WHEH A MAK’S single. 


Here? What do you mean?” 

Why, this. I shall probably be away from London for 
some months, and as I must keep on my rooms, I don’t see 
W'hy you should not occupy them. The furniture is mine, and 
you would be rent free, except that the housekeeper expects a 
few shillings a week for looking after things. What do you 
think?” 

Eob could have only one thought as he compared these com- 
fortable chambers to his own bare room, and as Eorrison, who 
seemed to have taken a warm liking to him, pressed the point, 
arguing that as the rent must be paid at any rate, the chambers 
were better occupied, he at last consented on the understand- 
ing that they could come to some arrangement on Eorrison’ s 
return. 

“ It will please my father, too,” Eorrison added, ‘‘ to know 
that you are here. I always remember that had it not been for 
him you might never have gone on to the press.” 

They sat so late talking this matter over that Eob eventually 
stayed all night, Eorrison having in his bedroom a couch 
which many journalists had slept on^ 

Next morning the paper whose nickname is the Scalpmg 
Knife, was served up with breakfast, and the first thing Eob 
saw in it was a leaderette about disease generated in the palm 
of the hand by walking-sticks with heavy knobs for handles. 

I told you,” said Eorrison, “ that Simms would make his 
half -guinea out of you.” 

When Eorrison went down to Simms’s chambers later in the 
day, however, to say that he was leaving Eob tenant of his 
rooms, he was laughing at something else. “ All during break- 
fast,” he said to Simms, I noticed that Angus was preoccu- 
pied, and anxious to say something that he did not like to say. 
At last he blurted it out with a white face, and what do you 
think it was?” 

Simms shook his head. 

“Well,” said Eorrison, “it was this: He has been accus- 
tomed to go down on his knees every night to say his prayers, 
as we used to do at school, but when he saw that I did not do 
it he did not like to do it either. I believe it troubled him all 
night, for he looked haggard when he rose.” 

“ He told you this?” 

“Yes; he said he felt ashamed of himself,” said Eorrison, 
smiling. “ You must rejatember he is countr3^-bred.” 

“You were a good fellow, Eorrison,” said Simms, gravely, 
“ to put him into your rooms, but I don’t see what you are 
laughing at.” 


WHEN A man’s single. 91 

“ Why/’ said Rorrison, taken aback, T thought you 
would see it in the same light.” 

‘‘ Not I,” said Simms; “ but let me tell you this, I shall do 
what I can for him. I like your Angus.” 


CHAPTER X. 

THE WIGWAM. 

Rob had a tussle for it, but he managed to live down his 
first winter in London, and May-day saw him sufficiently pros- 
perous and brazen to be able to go into restaurants and shout 
out ‘‘ Waiter.” After that nothing frightened him but bar- 
maids. 

For a time his chief struggle had been with his appetite, 
which tortured him when he went out in the afternoons. He 
wanted to dine out of a paper bag, but his legs were reluctant 
to carry him past a grill-room. At last a compromise was 
agreed upon. If he got a proof overnight, he dined in state 
next day; if it was only his manuscript that was returned to 
him, he thought of dinner later in the week. For a long time 
his appetite had the worst of it. It was then that he became 
so great an authority on penny buns. His striking appearance 
always brought the saleswomen to him promptly, and some- 
times he blushed, and often he glared, as he gave his order. 
When they smiled he changed his shop. 

There was one terrible month when he wrote from morning 
-to night and did not make sixpence. He lived by selling his 
books, half a dozen at a time. Even on the last day of that 
black month he did not despair. When he wound up his 
watch at nights before going hungry to bed, he never remem- 
bered that it could be pawned. The very idea of ptering a 
pawnshop never struck him. Many a time when his rejected 
■articles came back he shook his fist in imagination at all the 
editors in London, and saw himself twisting their necks one by 
one. To think of a different death for each of them exercised 
his imagination and calmed his passion, and he wondered 
whether the murder of an editor was an indictable offense. 
When he did not have ten shillings, I will get on,” cried 
Rob, to himself. I’m not going to be starved out of a big 
town like this. I’ll make my mark yet. Yes,” he roared, 
while the housekeeper, at the other side of the door, quaked 
to hear him, “ I will get on; I’m not going to be beaten.” 
He was waving his arms fiercely, when the housekeeper 
knocked. “ Come in,” said Rob, subsiding meekly into his 


93 


WHEN A man’s single 


chair. Before company he seemed to be without passion, but 
they should have seen him when he was alone. One night he 
dreamed that he saw all the editors in London being conveyed 
(in a row) to the hospital on stretchers. A gratified smile 
lighted up his face as he slept, and his arm, going out suddenly 
to tip one of the stretchers over, hit against a chair. Eob 
jumped out of bed and kicked the chair round the room. By 
and by, when his articles were occasionally used, he told his 
proofs that the editors were capital fellows. 

The only acquaintances he made were with journalists who 
came to his chambers to see Korrison, who was now in India. 
They seemed just as pleased to see Bob, and a few of them, 
who spoke largely of their connection with literature, borrowed 
five shillings from him. To his disappointment Noble Simms 
did not call, though he sometimes sent up notes to Eob sug- 
gesting likely articles, and the proper papers to which to send 
them. ‘‘ I would gladly say ‘ tJse my name,’ ” Simms wrote, 
“ but it is the glory of anonymous journalism that names are 
nothing and good stulf everything. I assure you that on the 
press it is the men who have it in them that succeed, and the 
best of them become editors. ” He advised Eob to go to the 
annual supper given by a philanthropic body to discharged 
criminals, and write an account of the proceedings; and told 
him that when anything remarkable happened in London he 
should at once do an article (in the British Museum) on the 
times the same thing had happened before. “ Don’t neglect 
eclipses,” he said, “ nor heavy-scoring cricket matches any 
more than what looks like signs of the times, and always try 
to be first in the field.” He recommended Eob to gather 
statistics of all kinds, from the number of grandchildren the 
crowned heads of Europe had to the jockeys who had ridden 
the Derby winner more than once, and suggested the collecting 
of anecdotes about celebrities, which everybody would want 
to read if the celebrities chanced to die, as they must do some 
day; and he assured him that there was a public who liked to 
be told every year what the poets had said about May. Eob 
was advised never to let an historic house disappear from Lon- 
don without compiling an article about its associations, and to 
be ready to run after the fire brigade. He was told that an 
article on flag-stone artists could be made interesting. ‘‘ But 
always be sure of your facts,” Simms said. “’Write your 
articles over again and again, avoid fine writing as much as 
dishonest writing, and never spoil a leaderette by drawing it 
out into a leader. By and by you may be able to choose the 
kind of subject that interests yourwlf, but at present put your 


WHEK A MAN^S SIETGLE. 93 

best work into what experienced editors believe interests the 
general public/’ 

Rob found these suggestions valuable, and often though!; as 
he passed Simms’s door of going in to thank him, but he had 
an uncomfortable feeling t&t Simms did not want him. Of 
course Rob was wrong. Simms had feared at first to saddle 
himself with a man who might prove incapable; and besides, 
he generally liked those persons best whom he saw least fre- 
quently. 

For the great part of the spring Simms was out of town; but 
one day after his return he met Rob on the stairs, and took 
him into his chambers. The sitting-room had been originally 
furnished with newspaper articles; Simms, in his younger 
days, when he wanted a new chair or an etching, having writ- 
ten an article to pay for it, and then pasted the article on the 
back. He had paid a series on wilds birds for his piano, and 
at one time leaderettes had even been found inside of his hats. 
Odd books and magazines lay about his table, but they would 
not in all have filled a library shelf; and there were no news- 
papers visible. The blank wall opposite the fire-place showed 
in dust that a large picture had recently hung there. It was 
an oil painting which a month earlier had given way in the 
cord and fallen behind the piano, where Simms was letting it 
lie. 

I wonder,” said Rob, who had heard from many quarters 
of Simms’s reputation, that you are content to put your best 
work into newspapers.” 

“ Ah,” answered Simms, I was ambitious once, but, as I 
told you, the grand book was a failure. Nowadays I gratify 
myself with the refiection that I am not stupid enough ever to 
be a great man.” 

I wish you would begin something really big,” said Rob, 
earnestly. 

‘‘ I feel safer,” replied Simms, ‘‘ finishing something really 
little.” 

He turned the talk to Rob’s affairs as if his own wearied 
him, and after hesitating, offered to place ” a political arti- 
cle by Rob with the editor of the Morning Wire. 

‘‘ I don’t say he’ll use it, though,” he added. 

This was so much the work Rob hungered for that he could 
have run upstairs and begun it at once. 

Why, you surely don’t work on Saturday nights?” said 
his host, who was putting on an overcoat. 

“ Yes,” said Rob^ there is nothing else to do. I knoif 


94 


WHEN A MAN S SINGLE. 


no one well enough to go to him. Of course I do nothing on 
the Sab — I mean on Sundays.’^ 

“No? Then how do you pass your Sundays?^ ^ 

“ I go to church, and take a long walk, or read.’^ 

“ And you never break this principle — when a capital idea 
for an article strikes you on Sunday evening, for instance?” 

“ Well,” said Eob, “ when that happens I wait until 
twelve o’clock strikes, and then begin.” 

Perceiving nothing curious in this, Eob did not look up to 
see Simms’s mouth twitching. 

“ On those occasions,” asked Simms, “ when you are wait- 
ing for twelve o’clock, does the evening not seem to pass very 
slowly?” 

Then Eob blushed. 

“ At all events, come with me to-night,” said Simms, “ to 
my club. I am going now to the Wigwam, and we may meet 
men there worth your knowing.” 

The AVigwam is one of the best known literary clubs in 
London, and as they rattled to it in a hansom, the driver of 
which was the broken son of a peer, Eob remarked that its 
fame had even traveled to his saw-mill. 

“ It has such a name,” said Simms in reply, “ that I feel 
sorry for any one who is taken to it for the first time. The 
best way to admire the AVigwam is not to go to it.” 

“ I always thought it was considered the pleasantest club in 
London,” Eob said. 

“ So it is,” said Simms, who was a member of half a dozen; 
“ most of the others are only meant for silting in on padded 
chairs and calling out ‘ sh-sh ’ when any other body speaks.” 

At the Wigwam there is a special dinner every Saturday 
evening, but it was over before Simms and Eob arrived, and 
the members were crowding into the room where great poets 
have sat beating time with church-wardens, while great artists 
or coming Cabinet ministers sung songs that were not of the 
drawing-room. A popular novelist, on whom Eob gazed with 
a veneration that did not spread to his companion’s face, was 
in the chair when they entered, and the room was full of lit- 
erary men, actors, and artists, of whom, though many were 
noted, many were also needy. Here was an actor who had 
separated from his wife because her notices were better than 
his; and another gentleman of the same profession took Eob 
aside to say that he was the greatest tragedian on earth if he 
could only get a chance. Eob did not know what to reply 
when the eminent cartoonist sitting next to him, whom he 
had looked up to for half a dozen years, told him, by way of 


wnm A man’s single. 


95 


opening a conversation, that he had just pawned his watch. 
They seemed so pleased with poverty that they made as much 
of a little of it as they could, and the wisest conclusion Rob 
came to that night was not to take them too seriously. It 
was, however, a novel world to find one’s self in all of a sud- 
den, one in which everybody was a wit at his own expense. 
Even Simms, who always upheld the press when any outsider 
ran it down, sung with applause some verses whose point lay 
in their being directed against himself. They began: 

“ When clever press- men write this way, 

‘ As Mr. J. A. Fronde would say,’ 

Is it because they think lie would. 

And have they read a line of Froude? 

“ Or is it only that they fear 
The comment they have made is queer, 

And that they either must erase it, 

Or say it’s Mr, Froude who says it?” 

Every one abandoned himself to the humor of the evening^ 
and as song followed song, or was wedged between entertain- 
ments of other kinds, the room filled with smoke till it re- 
sembled London in a fog. 

By and by a sallow-faced man mounted a table to show the 
company how to perform a remarkable trick with three hats. 
He got his hats from the company, and having looked at 
them thoughtfully for some minutes, said that he had forgot- 
ten the way. 

That,” said Simms, mentioning a well-known journalist, 

‘‘ is . He can never work unless his pockets are empty, and 

he would not be looking so doleful at present if he was not 
pretty well off. He goes from room to room in the house he 
lodges in, according to the state of his finances, and when you 
call on him you have to ask at the door which floor he is on 
to-day. One week you find him in the drawing-room, the next 
in the garret.” 

A stouter and brighter man followed the hat entertainment 
with a song, which he said was considered by some of his 
friends a recitation. 

There was a time,” said Simms, who was held a terrible . 
person by those who took him literally, “ when that was the 
saddest man I knew. He was so sad that the doctors feared 
he would die of it. It all came of his writing for Funch.^* 

“ How did they treat him?” Rob asked. 

‘‘ Oh, they quite gave him up, and he was wasting away 
visibly, when a second-rate provincial journal appointed him 
its London correspondent, and saved his life.” 


96 


WHEK A MAK’s SIKGLE. 


‘‘Then he was sad/’ asked Rob, “because he was out of 
work?” 

“On the contrary/’ said Simms, gravely, “he was always 
one of the successful men, but he could not laugh.” 

‘ ‘ And he laughed when he became a London correspond- 
ent?” 

“ Yes; that restored his sense of humor. But listen to this 
song; he is a countryman of yours who sings it.” 

A man who looked as if he had been cut out of a granite 
block, and who at the end of each verse thrust his pipe back 
into his mouth, sung in a broad accent, that made Rob want 
to go nearer to him, some verses about an old university: 

“ ‘ Take off the stranger’s hatl’ The shout 
We raised in fifty-nine 
Assails my ears, with careless flout. 

And now the hat is mine. 

It seems a day since I was here, 

A student slim and hearty, 

And see, the boys around me cheer, 

‘ The ancient-looking party T 

“ Rough horse- play did not pass for wit 
When Rae and Mill were there, 

I saw a lad/ from Oxford sit 
In Blackie’s famous chair, 

And Rae, of all our men the one 
We most admire in quad 
(I had this years ago), has gone 
Completely to the bad. 

“ In our debates the moral Mill 
Had infinite address, 

Alasl since then he’s robbed a till, 

And now he’s on the press. 

And Tommy Robb, the plowman’s son. 

Whom all his fellows slighted. 

From Rae and Mill the prize has won. 

For Tommy’s to be knighted. 

** A lanky loon is in the seat 

Filled once by manse-bred Sheen, 

Who did not care to mix with Peat*, 

A bleacher who had been. 

But watch the whirligig of time. 

Brave Peate became a preacher, 

His name is known in every clime, 

And Sheen is now the bleacher. 

“ McMillan, who the medals carried. 

Is now a judge, ‘tis said, 

And curly-headed Smith is marriei, 

And Williamson is dead. 


WHEN A man’s single. 


91 


Old Phil and I who shared our books 
Now very seldom meet, 

And when we do, with frowning looks 
We pass by in the street. 

“ The college rings with student slang 
As in the days of yore, 

The self same notice-boards still hang 
Upon the class-room door: 

An essay (1 expected that) 

On Burns this week, or Locke, 

‘ A theory of creation ’ at 
Precisely seven o’clock. 

** There’s none here now who knows my name. 

My place is far away. 

And yet the college is the same. 

Not older by a day. 

But curious looks are cast at me. 

Ah! herein lies the change, 

All else is as it used to be. 

And I alone am strange!” 

Now, 5'ou could never guess/’ Simms said to Rob, 
‘‘ what profession our singer belongs to.” 

“He looks more like a writer than an artist,” said Rob, 
who had felt the song more than the singer did. 

“ Well, he is more an artist than a writer; though, strictly 
speaking, he is neither. To that man is the honor ©f having 
created a profession. He furnishes rooms for interviews.” 

“ I don’t quite understand,” said Rob. 

“It is in this way,” Simms explained. “ Interviews in 
this country are of recent growth, but it has been already dis- 
covered that what the public want to read is not so much a 
celebrity’s views on any topic as a description of his library, 
his dressing-gown, or his gifts from the King of Kashabahoo. 
Many of the eminent ones, however, are very uninteresting in 
private life, and have no curiosities to show their interviewer 
worth writing about, so your countryman has started a pro- 
fession of providing curiosities suitable for celebrities at from 
five pounds upward, each article, of course, having a guar- 
anteed story attached to it. The editor, you observe, intimates 
his wish to include the distinguished person in his galaxy of 
‘ Men of the Moment,’ and then the notability drops a line to 
our friend saying that he wants a few of his rooms arranged 
for an interview. Your countryman sends the goods, arranges 
them effectually, and puts the celebrity up to the reminis- 
cences he is to tell about each.” 

“ I suppose,” said Rob, with a light in his eye, “ that the 


9S 


WHEN A MAN^S SINGLE. 


interviewer is as much taken in by this as — well, say, as I 
have been by you?’’ 

‘‘ To the same extent,” admitted Simms, ^ery solemnly. 

Of course he is not aware that before the interview appears, 
the interesting relics have all been packed up and taken back 
to our Scottish friend’s show-rooms.” 

The distinguished novelist in the chair told Rob (without 
having been introduced to him) that his books were beggaring 
his publishers. 

“What I make my living off,” he said, “is the penny 
dreadful, complete in one number. I manufacture ttvo a 
week, without hinderance to other employment, and could 
make it three if I did not have a weak wrist.” 

It was thus that every one talked to Rob, who, because he 
took a joke without changing countenance, was considered 
obtuse. He congratulated one man on his article on chaf- 
finches in the Evening Firehrand, and the writer said he liad 
discovered, since the paper appeared, that the birds he de- 
scribed were really linnets. Another man was introduced to 
Rob as the writer of “In Memoriam.” 

“ No,” said the gentleman himself, on seeing Rob start, 
“ my name is not Tennyson. It is, indeed, Murphy. Tenny- 
son and the other fellows, who are ambitious of literary fame, 
pay me so much a page for poems to which they put theii 
names.” 

At this point the applause became so deafening that Simm? 
and Rob, who had been on their way to another room, turned 
back. An aged man, with a magnificent head, was on his feel 
to describe his first meeting with Carlyle. 

“ Who is it?” asked Rob, and Simms mentioned the name 
of a celebrity only a little less renowned than Carlyle himself.' 
To Rob it had been one of the glories of London that in the 
streets he sometimes came suddenly upon world-renowned 
men, but now he looked upon this eminent scientist for the 
first time. The celebrity was there as a visitor, for the Wig- 
wam can not boast quite such famous members as he. 

The septuagenarian began his story well. He described the 
approach to Craigenputtock on a warm summer afternoon, 
and the emotions that laid hold of him as, from a distance, he 
observed the sage seated astride a low dike, flinging stones 
into the duck-pond. The pedestrian announced his name and 
the pleasure with which he at last stood face to face with the 
greatest writer of the day; and then the genial author of 
“ Sartor Resartus,” annoyed at being disturbed, jumped off 
the dike and chased his visitor round and rf>und the duck- 


WHEK A MAK’s SIKGLE. 


99 


pond. The celebrity had got thus far in his reminiscence 
when he suddenly stammered, bit his lip as if enraged at some- 
thing, and then trembled so much that he had to be led back 
to his seat. 

“ He must be ill, whispered Rob to Simms. 

‘‘ It isn’t that,’’ answered Simms; ‘‘ I fancy he must have 
caught sight of Wingfield.” 

Rob’s companion pointed to a melancholy-looking man in » 
seedy coat, who was sitting alone glaring at the celebrity. 

“ Who is he?” asked Rob. 

‘‘He is the great man’s literary executor,” Simms replied; 
“ come along with me and hearken to his sad tale; he is 
never loath to tell it.” 

They crossed over to Wingfield, who received them deject- 
edly. 

“ This is not a matter I care to speak of, Mr. Angus,” said 
the sorrowful man, who spoke of it, however, as frequently as 
he could find a listener. “It is now seven years since that 
gentleman ” — pointing angrily at the celebrity, who glared in 
reply — “ appointed me his literary executor. At the time, I 
thought it a splendid appointment, and by the end of two 
years I had all his remains carefully edited and his biography 
reatly for the press. He was an invalid at that time, supposed 
to be breaking up fast; yet look at him now.” 

“ He is quite vigorous in appearance now,” said Rob. 

“ Oh, I’ve given up hope,” continued Wingfield, dolefully. 

“ Still,” remarked Simms, “ I don’t know that you could 
expect him to die just for your sake. I only venture that as 
an opinion, of course.” 

“ I don’t ask that of him,” responded Wingfield. “ I’m 
not blaming him in any way; all I say is that he has spoiled 
my life. Here have I been waiting, waiting for five years, 
and I seem further from publication than ever.” 

“ It is hard on you,” said Simms. 

“ But why did he break down in his story,” asked Rob, 
“ when he saw you?” 

“ Oh, the man has some sense of decency left, I suppose, 
and knows that he has ruined my career.” 

“ Is the Carlylean reminiscence taken from the biography?” 
inquired Simms. 

“ That is the sore point,” answered Wingfield, sullenly. 
“ He used to shun society, but now he goes to clubs, ban- 
quets, and ‘ At Homes,’ and tells the choice things in the 
memoir at every one of them. The book will scarcely be 
worth printing now.” 


100 


WHEN A MAN^S SINGLE, 


I dare say he feels sorry for you,” said Simms, and sees 
that he has placed you, in a false position.” 

‘‘ He does in a way,” replied the literary executor, and 
yet I irritate him. When he was ill last December I called to 
ask for him every day, but he mistook my motives; and now 
he is frightened to be left alone with me.” 

‘‘It is a sad business,” said Simms, “ but we all have our 
trials.” 

“ I would try to bear up better,” said the sad man, “if I 
got more sympathy.” 

It was very late when Simms and Rob left the Wigwam, yet 
they were among the first to go. 

“ When does the club close?” Rob asked, as they got into 
the fresh air. 

“No one knows,” answered Simms, wearily, “ but I be- 
lieve the last man to go takes in the morning^s milk. ” 

In the weeks that followed Rob worked hard at political 
articles for the If Vre, and at last began to feel that he was 
making some headway. He had not the fatal facility for scrib- 
bling that distinguishes some journalists, but he had felt life 
before he took to writing. His style was forcible if not super- 
fine, and he had the faculty that makes a journalist — of only 
seeing things from one point of view. The successful political 
writer is blind in one eye. 

Though one in three of Rob’s articles was now used, the ed- 
itor of the Wire did not write to say that he liked them, and 
Rob never heard any one mention them. Even Simms would 
not read them, but then Simms never read any paper. He 
got his news from the placards, and bought the Scalping Knife, 
not to read his own articles, but to measure them and calcu- 
late how much he would get for them. Then he dropped them 
into the gutter. 

Some weeks had passed without Rob’s seemg Simms, when 
one day he got a letter that made him walk round and round 
his table like a circus-horse. It was from the editor of the 
Wire, asking him to be in readiness to come to the office any 
evening he might be wanted to write. This looked like a 
step toward an appointment on the staff if he gave satisfaction 
(a proviso which he took complacently), and Rob’s chest ex- 
panded till the room seemed quite small. He pictured 
Thrums again. He jumped to Mary Abinger, and then he 
distinctly saw himself in the editorial chair of the Times. He 
was lying back in it, smoking a cigar, and giving a Cabinet 
Minister five minutes. 

Nearly six months had passed since Rob saw Miss Abinger 


WHEN A ifAN^S SINGLE. 


101 


— a long time for a young man to remain in love with the 
same person. Of late Rob had been less given to dreaming 
than ma}^ be expected of a man wdio classifies the other sex 
into one particular lady and others; but Mary was coming to 
London in the early summer, and when he thought of summer 
he meant Mary. Rob v/as oftener in Piccadilly in May than 
he had been during the previous four months, and he was al- 
ways looking for somebody. It was the 3d of June, a day to 
be remembered in his life, that he heard from the editor of the 
Wire. At five o'’ clock he looked upon that as what made it 
a day of days, but he had changed his mind by a quarter past. 

Rob had a silk hat now, and he thrust it on his head, mean- 
ing to run down -stairs to tell Simms of his good fortune. He 
was in the happy frame of mind that makes a man walk 
round improbabilities, and for the first time since he came to 
London he felt confident of the future, without becoming de- 
spondent immediately afterward. The future, like the summer, 
was an allegory for Miss Abinger. For the moment Rob’s 
heart filled with compassion for Simms. The one thing our 
minds will not do is leave our neighbors alone, and Rob had 
some time before reached the conclusion that Simms’s nature 
had been twisted by a disappointment in love. There was 
nothing else that could account for his fits of silence, his in- 
difference to the future. He was known to have given the 
coat off his back to some miserable creature in the street, and 
to have been annoyed when he discovered that a friend saw 
him do it. Though Simms’s walls were covered with engrav- 
ings, Rob remembered all at once that there was not a female 
figure in one of them. 

To sympathize with others in a love affair is delightful to 
every one who feels that he is all right himself. Rob went 
down to Simms’s rooms with a joyous step and a light heart. 
The outer door stood ajar, and as he pushed it open he heard 
a voice that turned his face white. From where he stood para- 
lyzed he saw through the dark passage into the sitting-room. 
Mary Abinger was standing before the fire-place, and as Rob’s 
jkrm fell from the door, Simms bent forward and kissed her. 


CHAPTER XL 

BOB IS STKUCK DOWN. 

Rob turned from Simms’s door and went quietly down- 
stairs, looking to the beadle, who gave him a good-evening at 
the mouth of the inn, like a man going quietly to his work. 
He could not keep his thoughts. They fell about him in 


103 WfiEK A MAN^S SINGLE. 

sparks made by a wheel whirling so fast that it seemed motion- 
less. 

Sleep-walkers seldom come to damage until they awake, and 
Eob sped on, taking crossings without halt, deaf to the shouts 
of cabmen, blind to their gesticulations. When you have done 
Oxford Circus you can do anything; but he was not even 
brought to himself there, though it is all savage lands in 
twenty square yards. For a time he saw nothing but that 
scene in Simms’s cliambers, which had been photographed on 
his brain. The light of his life had suddenly been turned out, 
leaving him only the last thing he saw to think about. 

By and by he was walking more slowly, laughing at himself. 
Since he met Mary Abinger she had lived so much in his 
mind that he had not dared to think of losing her. He had 
only given himself fits of despondency for the pleasure of dis- 
pelling them. How all at once he saw without prejudice the 
Bob Angus who had made up his mind to carry oft this prize, 
and he cut such a poor figure that he smiled grimly at it. He 
realized as a humorous conception that this imcouth young 
man, who was himself, must have fancied that he was, on the 
whole, less unworthy of Miss Abinger than were most of the 
young men she was likely to meet. With the exaggerated hu- 
mility that comes occasionally to men in his condition, without, 
however, feeling sufficiently at home to remain long, he felt 
that there was everything in Simms a girl could find lovable, 
and nothing in himself. He was so terribly open that any 
one could understand him, while Simms was such an enigma 
as a girl would love to read. His own clumsiness contrasted 
as disastrously with Simms’s grace of manner as his blunt talk 
compared with Simms’s wit. Hot being able to see himself 
with the eyes of others, Eob noted only one thing in his favor, 
his fight forward; which they, knowing, for instance, that he 
was better to look at than most men, would have considered 
his chief drawback. Eob, in his calmer moments, had perhaps 
as high an opinion of his capacity as the circumstances war- 
ranted, but he never knew that a good many ladies felt his 
presence when he passed them. 

Most men are hero and villain several times a day; but Eob 
went through the whole gamut of sensations in half an hour, 
hating himself the one moment for what seemed another’s 
fault the next, fancying now that he was blessing the union of 
Mary with the man she cared for, and again, that he had Simms 
by the throat. He fled from the fleeting form of woman, and 
ran after it. 

Simms had deceived him, had never even mentioned Sil- 


WHEN A man’s single. 


103 


Chester, had laughed at the awakening that was coming to 
him. All these months they had been waiting for Mary Abin- 
ger together, and Simms had not said that when she came it 
would be to him. Then Eob saw what a foolish race these 
thoughts ran in his brain, remembering that he had only seen 
Simms twice for more than a moment, and that he himself 
had never talked of Silchester. He scorned his own want of 
generosity, and recalled his solicitude for Simms’s welfare an 
hour before. 

Eob saw his whole future life lying before him. The broken - 
looking man with the sad face, aged before his time, who 
walked alone up Fleet Street, was Eob Angus, who had come 
to London to be happy. Simms would ask him sometimes to 
his house to see her, but it was better that he should not go. 
She would understand why, if her husband did not. Her hus- 
band! Eob could not gulp down the lump in his throat. He 
rushed on again, with nothing before him but that picture of 
Simms kissing her. 

Simms was not worthy of her. Why had he always seemed 
an unhappy, disappointed man if the one thing in the world 
worth striving for was his? Eob stopped abruptly in the street 
with sudden thought. Was it possible that she did not care for 
Simms? Could that scene have had any other meaning? He 
had once heard Simms himself say that you never knew what 
a woman meant by anything until she told you, and probably 
not even then. But he saw again the love in her eyes as she 
looked up into Simms’s face. All through his life he would 
carry that look with him. 

They took no distinct shape, but wild ways of ending his 
misery coursed through his brain, and he looked on calmly at 
his own funeral. A terrible stolidity seized him, and he con- 
ceived himself a monster from whom the capacity to sympa- 
thize had gone. Children saw his face and fled from him. 

He had left England far behind, and dwelt now among the 
wild tribes who h^ not before looked upon a white face. Their 
sick came to him for miracles, and he either cured them or 
told them to begone. He was not sure whether he was a fiend 
or a missionary. 

Then something remarkable happened, which showed that 
Eob had not mistaken his profession. He saw himself in the 
editorial chair that he had so often coveted, and Mary Abinger, 
too, was in the room. Always previously when she had come 
between him and the paper, he had been forced to lay down 
his pen, but now he wrote on and on, and she seemed to help 
him. He was describing the scene that he had witnessed in 


104 


WHEN A man’s single. 


Simms’s chambers, describing it so vividly that he heard the 
great public discussing his article as if it were an Academy 
picture. His passion had subsided, and the best words formed 
slowly in his brain. He was hesitating about the most fitting 
title, when some one struck against him, and as he drew his 
hand over his eyes he knew with horror that he had been turn- 
ing Mary Abinger into copy. 

For the last time that night Rob dreamed again, and now it 
was such a fine picture he drew that he looked upon it with 
sad complacency. Many years had passed. He was now rich 
and famous. He passed through the wynds of Thrums, and 
the Auld Lichts turned out to gaze at him. He saw himself 
signing checks for all kinds of charitable objects, and appear- 
ing in the subscription lists, with a grand disregard for glory 
that is not common to philanthropists, as X. Y. Z. or A 
well-wisher.” His walls were lined with books written by 
himself, and Mary Abinger (who had not changed in the least 
with the years) read them proudly, knowing that they were 
all written for her. (Simms somehow had not fulfilled his 
promise. ) The papers were full of his speech in the House of 
Commons the night before, and he had declined a seat in the 
Cabinet from conscientious motives. His imagination might 
have landed him master in the Mansion House, had it not 
deserted him when he had most need of it. He fell from his 
balloon like a stone. Before him he saw the blank years that 
had to be traversed without any Mary Abinger, and despair 
filled his soul. All the horrible meaning of the scene he had 
fled from came to him like a rush of blood to the head, and 
he stood with it, glaring at it, in the middle of a roaring 
street. Three hansoms shaved him by an inch, and the fourth 
knocked him senseless. 

An hour later Simms was lolling in his chambers, smoking, 
his chair tilted back until another inch would have sent him 
over. His gas had been blazing all day because he had no 
blotting-paper, and the blinds were nicely pulled down because 
Mary Abinger and Xell were there to do it. They were sitting 
on each side of him, and Nell had on a round cap, about which 
Simms subsequently wrote an article, Mary’s hat was larger, 
and turned up at one side; the fashion which arose through a 
carriage-wheel’s happening to pass over the hat of a leader of 
fashion and made it perfectly lovely. Beyond the hats one 
does not care to venture; but out of fairness to Mary and Nell 
it should be said that there were no shiny little beads on their 
dresses. 

They had put on their liats to go, and then they had sat 


WHEN- A ilAX’s STKGLE. 


105 


down again to tell tlieir host a great many things that they 
had told him already. Even Mary, who was perfect in a gen- 
eral sort of way, took a considerable time to tell a story, and 
expected it to have more point when it ended than was some- 
times the case. Simms, with his eyes half closed, let the 
laughter ripple over his head, and drowsily heard the details 
of their journey from Silchester afresh. Mary had come up 
with the Merediths on the previous day, and they were now 
staying at the Langham Hotel. They would only be in town 
for a few weeks; “ just to oblige the season,’^ Nell said, for 
she had inveigled her father into taking a house-boat on the 
Thames, and was certain it would prove delightful. Mary 
was to accompany them there, too, having first done her duty 
to society, and Colonel Abinger was setting off shortly for the 
Continent. In the middle of her prattle, Nell distinctly saw 
Simms’s head nod, as if it was loose in its socket. She made 
a mournful grimace. 

Simms sat up. 

‘‘ Your voices did it,” he explained, unabashed. “ They 
are as soothing to the jaded journalist as the streams that mur- 
mur through the fields in June.” 

“ Cigars are making you stupid, Dick,” said Mary; “ I do 
wonder why men smoke. ” 

“ I have often asked myself that question,” thoughtfully 
answered Simms, whom it is time to call by his real name of 
Dick Abinger. ‘‘ I know some men who smoke because they 
might get sick otherwise when in the company of smokers. 
Others smoke because they begin to do so at school, and are 
now afraid to leave it off. A great many men smoke for 
philanthropic motives, smoking enabling them to work harder, 
and so being for their family’s good. At picnics men smoke 
because it is the only way to keep the midges off the ladies. 
Smoking keeps you cool in summer and warm in winter, and 
is an excellent disinfectant. There are even said to be men 
who admit that they smoke because they like it; but for my 
own part I fancy I smoke because I forget not to do so.” 

“ Silly reasons,” said Nell. If there was one possible im- 
provement she could conceive in Dick it was that he might 
make his jests a little easier. 

‘‘It is revealing no secret,” murmured Abinger in reply, 
“ to say that drowning men clutch at straws.” 

Mary rose to go once more, and sat down agam, for she had 
remembered something else. 

“ Do you know, Dick,” she said, “ that your two names are 
a great nuisance? On our way to London yesterday there was 


106 


WHEK A man’s single. 


an acquaintance of Mr. Meredith’s in the carriage^ and he 
told ns he knew Noble Simms well.” 

‘‘Yes,” said Nell, “ and that this Noble Simms was an old 
gentleman who had been married for thirty years. W e said we 
knew Mr. Noble Simms, and that he was a barrister, and he 
laughed at us. So, you see, some one is trading on your name.” 

“ Much good it may do him,” said Abinger, generously. 

“But it is horrid,” said Nell, “that we should have to 
listen to people praising Noble Simms’s writings, and not be 
allowed to say that he is Dick Abinger in disguise.” 

“ It must be very hard on you, Nell, to have to keep a se- 
cret,” admitted Dick; “ but you see, I must lead two lives or 
be undone. In the Temple you will see the name of Richard 
Abinger, barrister at law, but in Frobisher’s Inn he is J. 
Noble Simms.” 

“ I don’t see the good of it,” said Nell. 

“ My ambition, you must remember,” explained Dick, “ is 
to be lord-chancellor or lord-chief -justice, I forget which; but 
while I wait for that post I must live, and I live by my writ- 
ings (which are all dead the morning after they appear). 
Now, such is the suspicion with which literature is regarded 
by the legal mind, that were it known I wrote for the press, my 
chance of the lord-chancellorship would cease to be a moral 
certainty. The editor of the Scalping Knife has not the least 
notion that Noble Simms is the rising barrister who has been 
known to make as much by the law as a guinea in a single 
month. Indeed, only my most intimate friends, some of whom 
practice the same deception themselves, are aware that the 
singular gilts of Simms and Abinger are united in the same 
person.” 

“ The housekeeper here must know?” asked Mary. 

“ No; it would hopelessly puzzle her,” said Dick. “ She 
would think there was something uncanny about it, and so she 
is happy in the belief that the letters which occasionally come 
addressed to Abinger are forwarded by me to that gentleman’s 
abode in the Temple.” 

“ It is such an ugly name, Noble Simms,” said Nell. “ I 
wonder you selected it. ’ ’ 

“It is ugly, is it not?” said Dick. “ It struck me at the 
time as the most ridiculous name I was likely to think of, and 
so I chose it. Such a remarkable name sticks to the public 
mind, and that is fame. ” 

As he spoke he rose to get the two girls the cab that would 
take them back to the hotel. 

“ There is some knocking at the door,” said Mary, 


’wrrm a mak’s single. 


107 


Come in,” murmured Abinger. 

The housekeeper opened the door, but half shut it again 
when she saw that Dick was not alone. Then she thought of 
a compromise between telling her business and retiring. 

“ If you please, Mr. Simms,” she said, apologetically, 

would you speak to me a moment in the passage?” 

Abinger disappeared with her, and when he returned the 
indifferent look had gone from his face. 

Wait for me a few minutes,” he said; a man upstairs, 
one of the best fellows breathing, has met with an accident, 
and I question if he has a friend in London. I am going up 
to see him.” 

Poor fellow!” said Mary to Nell, after Dick had gone; 

fancy his lying here for weeks without any one’s goins: near 
him but Dick.” 

‘‘Not how much worse it would be without Dick!” said 
Nell. 

“ I wonder if he is a barrister?” said Mary. 

“ I think he will be a journalist rather,” Nell said, thought- 
fully, “ a tall, dark, melancholy-looking man, and I should 
not wonder if he had a broken heart.” 

“ I am afraid it is more serious than that,” said Mary. 

Nell set off on a trip round the room, remarking, with a 
profound sigh, that it must be awful to live alone and have 
no one to speak to for whole hours at a time. “ I should go 
mad,” she said, in such a tone of conviction that Mary did 
not think of questioning it. 

Then Nell, who had opened a drawer rather guiltily, ex- 
claimed, “ Oh, Mary!” 

A woman can put more meaning into a note of exclamation 
than a man can pack in a sentence. It costs Mr. Jones, for 
instance, a long message simply to telegraph to his wife that 
he is bringing a friend home to dinner; but in a sixpenny re- 
ply Mrs. Jones can warn him that he had better do no such 
thing, that he ought to be ashamed of himself for thinking of 
it, that he must make some excuse to his friend, and that he 
will hear more of this when he gets home. Nell’s “Oh, 
Mary!” signified that chaos was come. 

Mary hastened round the table, and found her friend whh a 
letter in her hand. 

“ Well,” said Mary, “ that is one of your letters to Dick, 
is it not?” 

“ Yes,” answered Nell, tragically; “ but fancy his keeping 
my letters lying about carelessly iu ^ draper — and — and, yes^ 
theiri as gcribblin^-pape^^r’ 


108 


WHEN A MAN'S SINGLE. 


Scrawled across the envelopes in a barely decipherable hand- 
writing were such notes as these: School-boys smoking 

master’s cane-chair^, work np;’^ ‘^Return of the swallows 
(poetic or humorous?);” My First Murder (magazine?);” 
“ Better do something pathetic for a change.” 

There were tears in fell’s eyes. 

‘‘ This comes of prying,” said Mary. 

Oh, I wasn’t prying,” said Nell; I only opened it by 
accident. That is the worst of it. I can’t say anything 
about them to him, because he might think I had opened hie 
drawer to — to see what was in it — which is the last thing in the 
world I would think of doing. Oh, Mary,” she added, wo- 
fully, what do you think?” 

“ I think you are a goose,” said Mary, promptly. 

‘‘ Ah, you are so indifferent,” Nell said, surrendering her 
position all at once. Now, when I see a drawer I am quite 
unhappy until I know what is in it, especially if it is locked. 
When we lived opposite the Burtons I was miserable because 
they always kept the blind of one of their windows down. If 
I had been a boy I would have climbed up to see why they 
did it. Ah, that is Dick; I know his step.” 

She was hastening to the door, when she remembered the 
letters, and subsided primly into a chair. 

‘‘ Well?” asked Mary, as her brother re-entered with some- 
thing in his hand. 

“ The poor fellow has had a nasty accident,” said Dick; 
‘‘run over in the street, it seems. He ought to have been 
taken to the infirmary, but they got a letter with his address 
on it in his pocket, and brought him here.” 

“ Has a doctor seen him?” 

“Yes; but I hardly made out from the housekeeper what 
he said. He was gone before I went up. There are some 
signs, however, of what he did. The poor fellow seems to 
have been struck on the head. ” 

Mary shuddered, understanding that some operation had 
been found necessary. 

“ Did he speak to you?” asked Nell. 

“ He was asleep,” said Dick, “ but talking more than he 
does when he is awake. ’ ’ 

“ He must have been delirious,” said Mary. 

“ One thing I can’t make out,” Dick said, more to himself 
than to his companions. “ He mumbled my name to himself 
half a dozen times while I was upstairs.” 

“ But is there anything remarkable in that,” asked Mary, 

‘‘ jj be go few friends in Loiidop?” • * 


WHEN i. man’s single. 


109 


What I don’t understand/’ explained Dick, ‘‘ is that the 
word I caught was Abinger. Now, I am quite certain that he 
only knew me as Noble Simms.” 

“ Some one must have told him your real name,” said 
Mary. ‘‘ Is he asleep now?” 

“ That reminds me of another thing,” said Dick, looking at 
the torn card in his hand. ‘‘ Just as I was coming away he 
staggered off the couch where he is lying to his desk, opened 
it, and took out this card. He glared at it, and tore it in two 
before I got him back to the couch.” 

There were tears in Nell’s eyes now, for she felt that she 
understood it all. 

“ It is horrible to think of him alone up there,” she cried. 
“ Let us go up to him, Mary.” 

Mary hesitated. 

‘‘ I don’t think it would be the thing,” she said, taking the 
card from Nell’s hand. She started slightly as she looked at 
it, and then became white. 

What is his name, Dick?” she faltered, in a voice that 
made Nell look at her. 

‘‘ Angus,” said Dick. He has been on the press here for 
some months.” 

The name suggested nothing at the moment to Nell, but 
Mary let the card fall. It was a shabby little Christmas card. 

“ I think we should go up and see if we can do anything,” 
Dick’s sister said. 

“ But would it be the thing?” Nell asked. 

“ Of course it would,” said Mary, a little surprised at Nell. 


CHAPTER XIL 

THE STUPID SEX. 

Give a man his chance, and he has sufficient hardihood for 
anything. Within a week of the accident, Rob was in Dick 
Abinger’ s most luxurious chair, coolly taking a cup and saucer 
from Nell, while Mary arranged a cushion for his poor head. 
He even made several light-hearted jests, at which his nurses 
laughed heartily— because he was an invalid. 

Rob’s improvement dated from the moment he opened his 
eyes, and heard the soft rustle of a lady’s skirts in the next 
room. He lay quietly listening, and realized by and by that 
he had known she was Mary Abinger all along. 

Who is that?’ he said, abruptly, to Dick, who was swing- 

ing bis legs on the dressing-tsibiei Pick came to him as awfe 


110 


WHEK Jl MAN^S single. 


wardly as if he had been asked to hold a baby, and saw no 
wav of getting out of it. Sick-rooms chilled him. 

Are you feeling better now, old fellow he asked, 

“ Who is it?’^ Kob repeated, sitting up in bed. 

‘‘ That is my sister,’^ Dick said. 

Eob^s head fell back. He could not take it in all at once. 
Dick thought he had fallen asleep, and tried to slip gently 
from the room, discovering for the first time as he did so that 
his shoes creaked. 

Don’t go,” said Eob, sitting up again. ‘‘ What is your 
sister’s name?” 

Abinger, of course — Mary Abinger,” answered Dick, 
under the conviction that the invalid was still off his head. 
He made for the door again, but Eob’s arm went out suddenly 
and seized him. 

‘‘ You are a liar, you know,” Eob said, feebly; she’s not 
your sister.” 

“No, of course not,” said Dick, humoring him. 

“ I want to see her,” Eob said, authoritatively. 

“ Certainly,” answered Dick, escaping into the other room 
to tell Mary that the patient was raving again. 

“ I heard him,” said Mary, 

“ Well, what’s to be done?” asked her brother. “ He’s 
'madder than ever.” 

“ Oh, no; I think he’s getting on nicely now,” Mary said, 
moving toward the bedroom. 

Don’t,” exclaimed Dick, getting in front of her; “ why, 
I tell you his mind is wandering. He says you’re not my 
sister.” 

“ Of course he can’t understand so long as he thinks your 
name is Simms. ” 

“ But he knows my name is Abinger. Didn’t I tell you I 
heard him groaning it over to himself?” 

“ Oh, Dick,” said Mary, “ I wish you would go away a»d 
write a stupid article.” 

Dick, however, stood at the door, ready to come to his sis- 
ter’s assistance if Eob got violent. 

“ He says you are his sister,” said the patient to Mary. 

“ So 1 am,” said Mary, softly. “ My brother writes under 
the name of Noble Simms, tut his real name is Abinger. 
Now you must lie still and think about that; you are net to 
talk any more.” 

“ I won’t talk any more/’ said Eob, slowly. “ You are not 

goin^ though?"’ 


113 


WHEK A MAK^S Sli^GLE. 

“Jusfc for a little while/’ Mary answered. ‘‘The doctoi 
will be here presently.” 

“ Well, you have quieted him,” Dick admitted. 

They were leaving the room when they heard Rob calling. 

“ There he goes again,” said Dick, groaning. 

“ What is it?” Mary asked, returning to the bedroom. 

“ Why did he say you were not his sister?” Rob said, very 
suspiciously. 

“ Oh, his mind was wandering,” Mary answered, cruelly. 

She was retiring again, but stopped undecidedly. Then she 
looked from the door to see if her brother was within hearing. 
Dick was at the other end of the sitting-room, and she came 
back noiselessly to Rob’s bedside. 

“ Do you remember,” she asked, in a low voice, “ how the 
accident happened? You know you were struck by a cab.” 

“ Yes,” answered Rob at once, “ I saw him kissing you. I 
don’t remember anything after that.’^ 

Mary, looking like a culprit, glanced hurriedly at the door. 
Then she softly pushed the invalid’s unruly hair off his brow, 
and glided from the room smiling. 

“ Well?” asked Dick. 

“ He was telling me how the accident happened,” Mary said. 

“ And how was it?” 

“ Oh, just as you said. He got bewildered at a crossing, 
and was knocked over.” 

“ But he wasn’t the man to lose his reason at a crossing,” 
said Dick. “ There must have been something to agitate 
him.” 

“ He said nothing about that,” replied Mary, without 
blushing. 

“ Did he tell you how he knew my name was Abinger?” 
Dick asked, as they went down-stairs. 

“ No,” his sister said; “ I forgot to ask him.” 

“ There was that Christmas card, too,” Dick said, sud- 
denly. “ Nell says Angus must be in love, poor fellow.” 

“ Nell is always thinking people are in love,” Mary an- 
swered, severely. 

“ By the way,” said Dick, “ what became of the card? He 
might want to treasure it, you know.” 

“ I — I rather think I put it somewhere,” Mary said. 

“ I wonder,” Dick remarked, curiously, “ what sort of girl 
Angus would take to?” 

“ I wonder,” said Mary. 

They were back in Dick’s chambers by this time, and he 


/ 

112 WHEK A MAK’s SINGLEo 

continued with some complacency, for all men think /hey are 
on safe ground when discussing an affair of the heart; 

‘‘We could build the young lady up from the cai^, which, 
presumably, was her Christmas offering to him. It was not 
expensive, so she is a careful young person; and the somewhat 
florid design represents a bluebird sitting on a pink twig, so 
that we may hazard the assertion that her artistic taste is not 
as yet fully developed. She is a fresh country maid, or the 
somewhat rich coloring would not have take her fancy, and 
she is short, a trifle stout, or a big man like Angus would not 
have fallen in love with her. Reserved men like gushing girls, 
so she gushes and says ‘ Oh my!’ and her nicest dress ” (here 
Dick shivered) “ is of a shiny satin, with a dash of rich velvet 
here and there. Do you follow me?” 

“Yes,” said Mary; “it is wonderful. I suppose, now, 
you are never wrong when you ‘ build up ’ so much on so 
little?’" 

“ Sometimes we go a little astray,"’ admitted Dick. “ I 
remember going into a hotel with Rorrison once, and on a ta- 
ble we saw a sailor-hat lying, something like the one Nell 
wears — or is it you?” 

“ The idea of your not knowing!"" said his sister, indig- 
nantly. 

“ Well, we discussed the probable owner. I concluded, 
after narrowly examining the hat, that she was tall, dark, and 
handsome rather than pretty. Rorrison, on the other hand, 
maintained that she was a pretty, baby-faced girl, with win- 
ning ways.” 

“ And did you discover if either of you was right?"" 

“Yes,” said Dick, slowly. Y In the middle of the discus- 
sion a little boy in a velvet suit toddled into the room, and 
said to us, ‘ Give me my hat." "" 

In the weeks that followed, Rob had many delicious experi- 
ences. He was present at several tea-parties in Abinger’s ' 
chambers, the guests being strictly limited to three; and when 
he could not pretend to be ill any longer, he gave a tea-party 
liimself in honor of his two nurses— his one and a half nurses, 
Dick called them. At this Mary poured out the tea, and Rob’s 
eyes showed so plainly (though not to Dick) that he had never 
seen anything like it that Nell became thoughtful, and made 
a number of remarks on the subject to her mother as soon as 
she returned home. 

“ It would neyer do,” Nell said, looking wise. 

“ What ever would the colonel say!” exclaimed Mrs. Mere- 
dith. “ After all, though,” she added — for she had been to 


WHEN A MAN^S SINGLE. 


IIS 


see Rob twice, and liked him because of something he had 
said to her about his mother — ‘‘ he is just the same as Rich- 
ard.’’ 

“ Oh, no, no,” said Nell, “ Dick is an Oxford man, you 
must remember, and Mr. Angus, as the colonel would say, 
rose from obscurity.” 

“ Well, if he did,” persisted Mrs. Meredith, “ he does not 
seem to be going back to it, and universities seem to me to be 
places for making young men stupid.” 

‘‘ It would never, never do,” said Nell, with doleful decision. 

‘‘ What does Mary say about him?” asked her mother. 

“ She never says anything,” said Nell. 

Does she talk much to him?” 

“No; very little.” 

“ That is a good sign,” said Mrs. Meredith. 

“ I don’t know,” said Nell. 

“ Have you noticed anything else?” 

“ Nothing, except — well, Mary is longer in dressing now 
than I am, and she used not to be.” 

“ I wonder,” Mrs. Meredith remarked, “ if Mary saw him 
at Silchester after that time at the castle?” 

“ She never told me she did,” Nell answered, “ but some- 
times I think — ^however, there is no good in thinking.” 

“ It isn’t a thing you often do, Nell. By the way, he saw 
the first Sir Clement at Dome Castle, did he not?” 

“ Yes,” Nell said, “ he saw the impostor, and I don’t sup- 
pose he knows there is another Sir Clement. The Abingers 
don’t like to speak of that. However, they may meet on 
Friday, for Dick has got Mr. Angus a card for the Symphonia, 
and Sir Clement is to be there.” 

“ What does Richard say about it?” asked Mrs. Meredith, 
going back apparently upon their conversation. 

“We never speak about it, Dick and I,” said Nell. 

“ What do you speak about, then?” 

“ Oh, nothing,” said Nell. 

Mrs. Meredith sighed. 

“ And you such an heiress, Nell,” she said; “ you could do 
so much better. He will never have anything but what he 
makes by writing; and if all stories be true, half of that goes 
to the colonel. I’m sure your father never will consent.” 

“ Oh, yes, he will,” Nell said. 

“ If he had really tried to get on at the bar,” Mrs. Mere- 
dith pursued, “ it would not have been so bad, but he is, evi- 
dently, to be a newspaper man all his life.” 

“ 1 wish you would say journalist, mamma,” Nell said^ 


/ 

114 . WHEN A MAN^S SINGLE. 

pouting, or literary man. The profession of letters is a no- 
ble one/ ^ 

“ Perhaps it is/^ Mrs. Meredith assented, with another 
sigh, “ and I dare say he told you so, but I can’t think it is 
very respectable.” 

Rob did not altogether enjoy the Symphonia, which is a 
polite club attended by the literary fry of both sexes: the ladies 
who write because they can not help it, the poets who excuse 
their verses because they were young when they did them, and 
clergymen who publish their sermons by request of their con- 
gregations, the tourists who have been to Spain and can not 
keep it to themselves. The club meets once a fortnight, for 
the purpose of not listening to music and recitations; and the 
members, of whom the ladies outnumber the men, sit in groups 
round little lions who roar mildly. The Symphonia is very 
fashionable and select, and having heard the little lions a-roar- 
ing, you get a cup of coffee and go home again. 

Dick explained that he was a member of the Symphonia be- 
cause he rather liked to put on the lion’s skin himself now 
and again, and he took Mrs. Meredith and the two girls to it 
to show them of what literature in its highest branches is 
capable. The elegant dresses of the literary ladies, and the 
suave manner of the literary gentlemen, impressed Nell’s 
mother favorably, and the Symphonia, which she had taken 
for an out-at-elbows club, raised letters in her estimation. 

Rob, however, who never felt quite comfortable in evening 
dress, had a bad time of it; for Dick carried him off at once, 
and got him into a group round the authoress of ‘‘ My Baby 
Boy,” to whom Rob was introduced as a passionate admirer of 
her delightful works. The lion made room for him, and he 
sat sadly beside her, wishing he was not so big. 

Both of the rooms of the Symphonia Club were crowded, 
but a number of gentlemen managed to wander from group to 
group over the skirts of ladies’ gowns. Rob watched them 
wistfully from his cage, and observed one come to rest at the 
back of Mary Abinger’s chair. He was a medium-sized man, 
and for five minutes Rob thought he was Sir Clement Dowton. 
Then he realized that he had been deceived by a remarkable 
resemblance. 

The stranger said a great deal to Mary, and she seemed to 
like him. After a long time the authoress’s voice broke in on 
Rob’s cogitations, and when he saw that she was still talking 
without looking tired, a certain awe filled him. Then Mary 
rose from her chair, taking the arm of the gentleman who 


WHEK A MAK’s single. 115 

was Sir Clementes double, and they went into the other room, 
where the coffee was served. 

Rob was tempted to sit there stupidly miserable, for the 
easiest thing to do comes to us first. Then he thought it was 
better to be a man, and, drawing up his chest, boldly asked 
the lion to have a cup of coffee. In another moment he was 
steering her through the crowd, her hand resting on his arm, 
and, to his amazement, he found he rather liked it. 

In the coffee-room Rob could not distinguish the young 
lady who moved like a swan; but he was elated with his social 
triumph, and cast about for any journalist of his acquaintance 
who, he thought, might like to meet the authoress of “ My 
Baby Boy. It struck Rob that he had no right to keep her 
all to himself. Quite close to him his eye lighted on Marriott, 
the author of ‘‘ Mary Hooney: a Romance of the Irish Ques- 
tion;” but Marriott saw what he was after, and dived into the 
crowd. A very young gentleman with large, empty eyes begged 
Rob’s pardon for treeing on his toes, and Rob, who had not 
felt it, saw that this was his man. He introduced him to the 
authoress as another admirer, and the round-faced youth 
seemed such a Likely subject for her next work that Rob 
moved off comfortably. 

A shock awaited him when he met Dick, who had been’ 
passing the time by taking male guests aside and asking them 
in an impressive voice what they thought of his great book, 
‘‘ Lives of Eminent Washerwomen,” which they had no 
doubt read. 

“ Who is the man so like Dowton?” he repeated, in answer 
to Rob’s question. ‘‘ Why, it is Dowton.” 

Then Dick looked vex^. He remembered that Rob had 
been at Dome Castle on the previous Christmas Eve. 

‘‘ Look here, Angus,” he said, bluntly, “ this is a matter I 
hate to talk about. The fact is, however, that this is the real 
Sir Clemept. The fellow you met was an impostor, who came 
from no one knows where. Unfortunately, he has returned 
to the same place.” 

Dick bit his lip while Rob digested this. 

“But if you knew the real Dowton,” Rob asked, “how 
were you deceived?” 

“ Well, it was my father who was deceived rather than my- 
self, but we did not know the real baronet then. The other 
fellow, if you must know, traded on his likeness to Dowton, 
who is in the country now for the first time for many years. 
Whoever the impostor is, he is a humorist in his way, for 

TS^ben he left the ej^tJe m Jwflary he ashed wy fether to call 


116 


WHEN A MAN^S SINGLE. 


on him when he came to town. The fellow must have known 
that Dowton was coming home about that time; at all events, 
my father, who was in London shortly afterward, looked up 
his friend the baronet, as he thought, at his club, and found 
that he had never set eyes on him before. It would make a 
delicious article if it had not happened in one’s own family.” 

‘‘ The real Sir Clement seems great friends with Miss Abin- 
ger,” Eob could not help saying. 

‘‘ Yes,” said Dick, “ we struck up an intimacy with him 
over the affair, and stranger things have happened than that 
he and Mary — ” 

He stopped. 

“ My father, I believe, would like it,” he added, carelessly; 
but Eob had turned away. Dick vent after him. ■ ' 

“I have told you this,” he said, “ because, as you knew 
the other man, it had to be done; but we don’t like it spoken 
of.” 

“ I shall not speak of it,” said miserable Eob. 

He would have liked to be tearing through London again; 
but as that was not possible, he sought a solitary seat by the 
door. Before he reached it his mood changed. What was 
Sir Clement Dowton, after all, that he should be frightened at 
him? He was merely a baronet. An impostor who could 
never have passed for a journalist had succeeded in passing for 
Dowton. Journalism was the noblest of all professions, and 
Eob was there representing it. The seat of honor at the Sym- 
phonia was next to Mary Abinger, and the baronet had held it 
too long already. Instead of sulking, Eob approached the 
throne like one who had a right to be there. Sir Clement had 
risen for a moment to put down Mary’s cup, and when he re- 
turned Eob was in his chair, with no immediate intention of 
getting out of it. The baronet frowned, which made Eob say 
quite a number of bright things to Miss Abinger. When two 
men are in love with the same young lady, one of them mutt 
be worsted. Eob saw that it was better to be the other one. 

The frightfully bohemian people at the Symphonia re- 
mained there even later than eleven o’clock, but the rooms 
thinned before then, and Dick’s party were ready to go by 
half past ten. Eob was now very sharp. It did not escape 
his notice that the gentlemen were bringing the ladies’ cloaks, 
and he calmly made up his mind to help Mary Abinger on 
with hers. To his annoyance. Sir Clement was too quick for 
him. The baronet was in the midst of them, with the three 
ladies’ cloaks, just as Eob wondered where he would have to 
go to Sfia thoffi! loll’p ojofi^ Sir Clemeut liarM to Piek| 


WHEK A MAN S SINGLE. 


117 


but he kept Mary’s on his arm, while he assisted Mrs. Mere- 
dith into hers. It was a critical moment. All would be over 
in five seconds. 

‘‘ Allow me,” said Rob. 

With apparent coolness he took Mary’s cloak from the bar- 
onet’s arm. He had not been used to saying “allow me,” 
and his face was white; but he was determined to go on with 
this thing. 

“ Take my arm,” he said to Mary, as they joined the crowd 
that swayed toward the door. After he said it he saw that he 
had spoken with an air of proprietorship, but he was not sorry. 
Mary did it. 

It took them some time to reach their cab, and on the way 
Mary asked Rob a question. 

“I gave you something once,” she said, “but I suppose 
you lost it long ago?” 

Rob reddened, for he had been sadly puzzled to know what 
had become of his Christmas card. 

“ I have it still,” he answered at last. 

“ Oh,” said Mary, coldly; and at once Rob felt a chill pass 
through him. It was true, after all, that Miss Abinger could 
be an icicle on occasion. 

Rob, having told a lie, deserved no mercy, and got none. 
The pity of it is that Mary might have thawed a little had she 
known that it was only a lie. She thought that Rob was not 
aware of his loss. A man taking fickleness as the comparative 
degree of an untruth is perhaps only what may be looked for, 
but one does not expect it from a woman. Probably the lights 
had blinded Mary. 

Rob had still an opportunity of righting himself, but he did 
not take it. 

“ Then you did mean the card for me,’'’ he said, in foolish 
exultation; “ when I found it on the walk I was not certain 
that you had merely dropped it by accident.” 

Alas for the fatuity of man ! Mary looked up in icy sur- 
prise. 

“ What card?” she said. “ I don’t know what you are 
talking about. ” 

“ Don’t you remember?” asked Rob, very much requiring 
to be sharpened again. 

He looked so woe-begone that Mary nearly had pity on him, 
She knew, however, that if it was not for her sex men would 
never learn anything. 

“Ho,” she replied, and turned to talk to Sir Clement. 

^ 0 ^ w»Jke4 JiQW from tfre Langliam that Bight with Dick* 


118 


WHEN A man’s single. 


and when he was not thinking of the two Sir Clements, he 
was telling himself that he had climbed his hill valiantly, only 
to topple over when he neared the top. Before he went to bed. 
he had an article to finish for the Wire, and while he wrote it, 
he pondered over the ways of woman, which, when you come 
to think of it, is a droll thing to do. 

Mr. Meredith had noticed Bob’s dejection at the hotel and 
remarked to Nell’s mother that he thought Mary was very stiff 
to Angus. Mrs. Meredith looked sadly at her husband in reply. 

“You think so,” she said, mournfully shaking her head at 
him, “ and so does Kichard Abinger. Mr. Angus is as blind 
as the rest of you.” 

“ I don’t understand,” said Mr. Meredith, with much curi- 
osity. 

“Nor do they,” replied his wife, contemptuously; “ there 
are no men so stupid, I think, as the clever ones.” 

She could have preached a sermon that night, with the stu- 
pid sex for her text. 


CHAPTER XIII. 

THE HOUSE-BOAT “ TAWNY OWL.’ 

“ Mr. Angus, what is an egotist?” 

“ Don’t you know. Miss Meredith?” 

“ Well, I know in a general sort of way, but not precisely.” 

“ An egotist is a person who — but why do you want to 
know?” 

“ Because just now Mr. Abinger asked me what I was think- 
ing of, and when I said of nothing he called me an egotist.” 

“ Ah, that kind of egotist is one whose thoughts are too 
deep for utterance.” 

It was twilight. Rob stood on the deck of the house-boat 
“ Tawny Owl,” looking down at Nell, who sat in the stern, 
her mother beside her, amid a blaze of Chinese lanterns. Dick 
lay near them, prone, as he had fallen from a hammock 
whose one fiaw was that it gave way when any one got into it. 
Mr. Meredith, looking out from one of the saloon windows 
across the black water that was now streaked with glistening 
silver, wondered whether he was enjoying himself, and Mary, 
in a little blue nautical jacket, with a cap to match, lay back 
in a camp-chair on deck with a silent banjo in her hands. 
Rob was brazening it out in flannels, and had been at such 
pains to select colors to suit him that the effect was atrocious, 
spent sey^ral aftemoori§ ^t Molesey during the three 


■WHEK A man’s single. HO 

weeks the ‘‘ Tawny Owl ’’ had lain there, but this time he 
was to remain overnight at the Island Hotel. 

The ‘‘Tawny Owl’’ was part of the hoop of house-boats 
that almost girded Tagg’s Island, and lights sailed through 
the trees telling of launches moving to their moorings near the 
ferry. Now and again there was an echo of music from a dis- 
tant house-boat. For a moment the water was loquacious as 
dingies or punts shot past. Canadian canoes, the ghosts that 
haunt the Thames by night, lifted their heads out of the river, 
gaped, and were gone. An osier wand dipped into the water 
under a weight of swallows, all going to bed together. The 
boy on the next boat-house kissed his hand to a broom on board 
the “ Tawny Owl,” taking it for Mrs. Meredith’s servant, and 
then retired to his kitchen smiling. From the boat-house 
across the river came the monotonous tap of a hammer. A 
reed-warbler rushed through his song. There was a soft splash- 
ing along the bank. 

“ There was once a literary character,” Dick murmured,' 
“ who said that to think of nothing was an impossibility, but 
he lived iDefore the days of house-boats. I came here a week 
ago to do some high thinking, and I believe I have managed 
only four thoughts — first, that the cow on the island is an 
irate cow; second, that in summer the sun shines brightly; 
third, that the trouble of lighting a cigar is almost as great as 
the pleasure of smoking it; and fourth, that swans — the fourth 
thought referred to swans, but it has slipped my memory.” 

He yawned like a man glad to get at the end of his sen- 
tence, or sorry that he had begun it. 

“ But I thought,” said Mrs. Meredith, “ that the reason 
you walked round and round the island by yourself so fre- 
quently is because you can think out articles on it?’^ 

“Yes,” Dick answered, “ the island looks like a capital 
place to think on, and I always start off on my round mean- 
ing to think hard. After that all is a blank till I am back at 
the ‘ Tawny Owl,’ when I remember that I have forgotten to 
think.” 

“ Will ought to enjoy this,” remarked Nell. 

“ That is my brother, Mr. Angus,” Mary said to Rob; “ he 
is to spend part of his holiday here.” 

“ I remember him,” Rob answered, smiling. Mary blushed, 
however, remembering that the last time Will and Greybrooke 
met Rob there had been a little scene. 

“ He will enjoy the fishing,” said Dick. “ I myself have 
fished only three or four times, and I am confident I hooked a 
minnow yesterday.” 


no 


WHEN- A man’s single. 


I saw a little boy,” Nell said, ‘‘ fishing from tbe island 
to-day, and his mother had strapped him to a tree in c^se he 
might fall in. ” 

“ When I saw your young brother at Silchester,” Rob said 
to Mary, ‘‘ he had a school-mate with him.” 

‘‘ Ah, yes,^^ Dick said; ‘‘ that was the man who wanted to 
horsewhip you, you know.” 

“ I thought he and Miss Meredith were great friends,” Rob 
retorted. He sometimes wondered how much Dick cared for 
Nell: 

‘‘It was only the young gentleman’s good-nature,” Abinger 
explained, while Nell drew herself up indignantly; “ he found 
that he had to give up either Nell or a cricket match, and so 
Nell was reluctantly dropped.” 

“ That was not how you spoke,” Nell said to Dick, in a low 
voice, “ when I told you all about him, poor boy, in your 
chambers.” 

“You promised to be a sister to him, I think,” remarked 
Abinger. “ Ah, Nell, it is not a safe plan that. How many 
brothers have you now?” 

Dick held out his hand for Mary’s banjo, and settling him- 
■elf comfortably in a corner, twanged and sung, while the 
lanterns caught myriads of files, and the bats came and went. 

“ When Ccelebs was a bolder blade, 

And ladies fair were coy, 

His search was for a wife, he said. 

The time I was a boy; 

But Coelebs now - has slothful grown 
(I learn this from her mother), 

Instead of making her his own, 

He asks to be her brother. 

“ Last night I saw her smooth his brow, 

He bent his head and kissed her; 

They understand each other now. 

She’s going to be his sister. 

Some say he reallj^ does propose. 

And means to gain or lose all, 

And that the new arrangement goes, 

To soften her refusal. 

** He talks so wfild of broken heartf. 

Of futures that she’ll mar; 

He says on Tuesday he departs 
For Cork or Zanzibar. 

His death he places at her door. 

Yet says he w^on’t resent it; 

Ah, well, he talked that w’ay before, 

And very seldom meant it. 


WHEK A man’s single. 


121 


“ Engagements now are curious things, 

‘ A kind of understanding, 

Although they do not run to rings, 

TheyTe good to keep your hand is. 

No rivals now Tom, Dick and Hal, 

They all love one another, 

Tor she’s a sister to them all. 

And every one’s her brother. 

** In former days when men proposed. 

And ladies said them No, 

The laws that courtesy imposed 
Made lovers pack and go. 

But now that they may brothers be. 

So changed the way of men is. 

That, having kissed, the swain and she 
Resume their game at tennis. 

“ Ah, Nelly Meredith, you may 
Be wiser than your mother, 

But she knew what to do when they 
Proposed to be her brother. 

Of these relations best liave none, 

They’ll only you encumber. 

Of wives a man may have but one, 

Of sisters any number.” 

Dick disappeared into the kitchen with Mrs. Meredith, to 
ahow her how they make a salad at the Wigwam, and Nell 
and her father went a-fishing from a bedroom window. The 
night was so silent now that Rob and Mary seemed to have it 
to themselves. A canoe in a blaze of colored light drifted past 
without a sound. The grass on the bank parted, and water-rats 
peeped out. All at once Mary had nothing to say, and Rob 
shook on his stool. The moon was out looking at them. 

“ Oh,” Mary cried, as something dipped suddenly in the 
water near them. 

‘‘ It was only a dabchick,” Rob guessed, looking over the 
rail. 

“ What is adabchick?” asked Mary. 

Rob did not tell her. She had not the least desire to know. 

In the river, on the opposite side from where the “ Tawny 
Owl ” lay, a stream drowns itself. They had not known of 
its existence before, but it was roaring like a lasher to them 
now. Mary shuddered slightly, turning her face to the island, 
and Rob took a great breath as he looked at her. His hand 
held her brown sunshade that was ribbed with velvet, the sun- 
shade with the preposterous handle that Mary held upside 
down. Other ladies carried their sunshades so, and Rob re- 
sented it. Her back was toward him, and he sat still, gazing 


122 


WHEI^ A man's single. 


at the loose blue jacket that only reached to her waist. It 
was such a slender waist that Kob trembled for it. 

The trees that hung over the house-boat were black, but the 
moon made a fairy-land of the sward beyond. Mary could 
only see the island between heavy branches, but she looked 
straight before her until tears dimmed her eyes. Who would 
dare to seek the thoughts of a girl at such a moment? Rob 
moved nearer her. Her blue cap was tilted back, her chin 
rested on the rail. All that was good in him was astir when 
she turned and read his face. 

I think I shall go down now," Mary said, becoming less 
pale as she spoke. Rob’s eyes followed her as she moved to- 
ward the ladder. 

‘‘Not yet," he called after her, and could say no more. It 
was always so when they were alone; and he made himself 
suffer for it afterward. 

Mary stood irresolutely at the top of the ladder. She would 
not turn back, but she did not descend. Mr. Meredith was 
fishing lazily from the lower deck, and there was a murmur of 
voices in the saloon. On the road running parallel to the river, 
traps and men were shadows creeping along to Hampton. 
Lights were going out there. Mary looked up the stretch of 
water and sighed. 

“Was there ever so beautiful a night?" she said. 

“Yes," said Rob, at her elbow, “ once at Dome Castle, the 
night I saw you first." 

“ I don’t remember," said Mary, hastily, but without go- 
ing down the ladder. 

“ I might never have met you," Rob continued, grimly, “ if 
some man in Silchester had not murdered his wife." 

Mary started and looked up at him. Until she ceased to 
look he could not go on. 

“ The murder," he explained, “ was of more importance 
than Colonel Abinger’s dinner, and so I was sent to the castle. 
It is rather curious to trace these things back a step. The 
woman enraged her husband into striking her, because she 
had not prepared his supper. Instead of doing that, she had 
been gossiping with a neighbor, who would not have had time 
for gossip had she not been laid up with a sprained ankle. It 
came out in the evidence that this woman had hurt herself by 
slipping on a marble, so that I might never have seen you had 
not two boys, whom neither of us ever heard of, challenged 
each other to a game at marbles." 

“ It was stranger that we should meet again in London," 
Mary said. 


WHEN A man’s SINGIK ^ 123 

No/’ Rob answered, “ the way we met was strange, but I 
was expecting you.” 

Mary pondered how she should take this, and then pretended 
not to hear it. 

“Was it not rather ‘ The Scorn of Scorns ’ that made us 
know each other?” she asked. 

“ I knew you after I read it a second time,” he said; “ I 
have got that copy of it still.” 

“You said you had the card.” 

“ I have never been able to understand,” Rob answered, 
“ how I lost that card. But,” he added, sharply, “ how do 
you know that I lost it?” 

Mary glanced up again. 

“ I hate being asked questions, Mr. Angus,” she said, 
sweetly. 

“ Do you remember,” Rob went on, “ saying in that book 
that men were not to be trusted until they reached their sec- 
ond childhood?” 

“ I don’t know,” Mary replied, laughing, “ that they are 
to be trusted even then.” 

“ I should think,” said Rob, rather anxiously, “ that a 
woman might as well marry a man in his first childhood as in 
his second. Surely the golden mean — ” Rob paused. . He 
was just twenty-seven. 

“We should strike the golden mean, you think?” asked 
Mary, demurely. “ But you see it is of such short duration.” 

After that there was such a long pause that Mary could 
easily have gone down the ladder had she wanted to do so. 

“ I am glad that you and Dick are such friends,” she said 

“ Why?” asked Rob, quickly. 

“ Oh, well,” said Mary. 

“ He has been the best friend I have ever made,” Rob con- 
tinued, warmly, “ though he says our only point in common 
is a hatred of rice-pudding.” 

“ He told me,” said Mary, “ that you write on politics in 
the Wire.” 

“ I do a little now, but I have never met any one yet who 
admitted that he had read my articles. Even your brother 
won’t go as far as that.” 

“ I have read several of them,” said Mary. 

“ Have you?” Rob exclaimed, like a big boy. 

“Yes,” Mary answered, severely; “ but I don’t agree with 
them. I am a Conservative, you know.” 

She pursed up her mouth complacently as she spoke, and 


124 


WHEIf A man's single.- 


Eob fell back a step to prevent liis going a step closer. He 
could hear Mr. Meredith’s line tearing the water. The boy 
on the next boat-house was bailing the dingey, and whistling a 
doleful ditty between each canful. 

“ There will never be such a night again/' Eob said, in a 
melancholy voice. Then he waited for Mary to ask why, when 
he would have told her, but she did not ask. 

“ At least, not to me,” he continued after a pause, ‘‘for I 
am not likely to be here again. But there may be many such 
nights to you.” 

Mary was unbuttoning her gloves and then buttoning them 
again. There is something uncanny about a woman who has 
a chance to speak and does not take it. 

“lam glad to hear,” said Eob, “ that my being away will 
make no difference to you.” 

A light was running along the road to Hampton Court, and 
Mary watched it. 

“ Are you glad?” asked Eob, desperately. 

“You said I was,” answered Mary, without turning her 
head. Dick was thrumming the banjo below. Her hand 
touched a camp-chair, and Eob put his over it. He would 
have liked to stand like that and talk about things in general 
now. 

“ Mary,” said Eob. 

The boy ceased to whistle. All nature in that quarter was 
paralyzed, except the tumble of water across the river. Mary 
withdrew her hand, but said nothing. Eob held his breath. 
He had not even the excuse of having spoken impulsively, for 
he had been meditating saying it for weeks. 

By and by the world began to move again. The boy 
whistled. A swallow tried another twig. A moor-hen 
splashed in the river. They had thought it over, and meant 
to let it- pass. 

“ Are you angry with me?” Eob asked. 

Mary nodded her head, but did not speak. Suddenly Eob 
started. 

“You are crying,” he said. 

“ Ho, I’m not,” said Mary, looking up now. 

There was a strange light in her face that made Eob shake. 
He was so near her that his hands touched her jacket. At 
that moment there was a sound of feet on the plank that com- 
municated between the “ Tawny Owl ” and the island, and 
Dick called out: 

“You people up there, art you coming once round the 
island before you have something to eat?” 


'W'Rm A MAK^S STNGL-fi. 


125 


Rob muttered a reply that Dick fortunately did not catch, 
but Mary answered, “ Yes,"’ and they descended the ladder. 

“ You had better put a shawl over your shoulders,” said 
Rob, in rather a lordly tone. 

“ No,” Mary answered, thrusting away the shawl he pro- 
duced from the saloon; “ a wrap on a night like this would be 
absurd.” 

Something caught in her throat at that moment, and she 
coughed. Rob looked at her anxiously. 

“You had better,” he said, putting the shawl over her 
shoulders. 

“ No,” said Mary, flinging it off. 

“Yes,” said Rob, putting it on again. 

Mary stamped her foot. 

“ How dare you, Mr.. Angus?” she exclaimed. 

Robe’s chest heaved. 

“You must do as you are told,” he said. 

Mary looked at him while he looked at her, but she did not 
take off the shawl again, and that was the great moment of 
Rob’s life. 

The others had gone on before. Although it was a white 
night the plank was dark in shadow, and as she stepped off it 
she slipped back. Rob’s arm went round her for a moment. 
They walked round the island together behind the others, but 
neither uttered a word. Rob was afraid even to look at her, 
so he did not see that Mary looked once or twice at him. 

Long after he was supposed to be in the hotel Rob was still 
walking round the island, with no one, to see him but the cow. 
All the Chinese lanterns were out now, but red window-blinds 
shone warm in several house-boats, and a terrier barked at his 
footsteps. The grass was silver- tipped, as in an enchanted 
island, and the impatient fairies might only have been waiting 
till he was gone. He was wondering if she was offended. 
While he paced the island she might be vowing never to look 
at him again, but perhaps she was only thinking that he was 
very much improved. 

At last Rob wandered to the hotel, and reaching his bedroom, 
sat down on a chair to think it out again by candle-light. He 
rose and opened the window. There was a notice over the 
mantel-piece announcing that smoking was not allowed in the 
bedrooms, and having read it thoughtfully, he filled his pipe. 
A piece of crumpled paper lay beneath the dressing-table, and 
he lifted it up to make a spill of it. It was part of an envel- 
ope, and it floated out of Rob’s hand as he read the address in 


1^6 


WEEK A. MAK^S SINGLE. 


Mary Abinger’s handwriting, ‘‘ Sir Clement Dowton, Island 


Hotel. 


CHAPTEE XIV. 


MAKY OF THE STONY HEAET. 


A PUNT and a rowing-boat were racing lazily toward Sun- 
bury on a day so bright that you might have passed women 
with their hair in long curls and forgiven them. 

‘‘I say, Dick,’^ said one of the scullers, ‘‘are they en- 



Will was the speaker, and in asking the question he caught 
a crab. Mary, with her yellow sleeves turned up at the wrist, 
a great straw hat on her head, ran gayly after her pole, and 
the punt jerked past. If there are any plain girls let them 
take to punting and be beautiful. 

Hick, who was paddling rather than pulling stroke, turned 
round on his young brother sharply. 

“ Whom do you mean?” he asked, speaking low, so that the 
other occupants of the boat should not hear him, “ Mary and 
Dowton?” 

“No,” said Will, “ Mary and Angus. I wonder what they 
see in her.” 

They were bound for a picknicking resort up the river; Mrs. 
Meredith, Mary and Sir Clement in the punt, and the others 
in the boat. If Eob was engaged, he took it gloomily. He 
sat in the stern with Mr. Meredith, while Nell hid herself 
away beneath a many-colored umbrella in the prow; and 
when he steered the boat into a gondola, he only said, vacant- 
ly, to its occupants, “ It is nothing at all,” as if they had run 
into him. NelPs father said something about not liking the 
appearance of the sky, and Eob looked at him earnestly for 
such a length of time before replying that Mr. Meredith was 
taken aback. At times the punt came alongside, and Mary 
addressed every one in the boat except Eob. The only person 
in the punt whom Eob never looked at was Mary. Dick 
watched them uneasily, and noticed that once, when Mary 
nearly followed her pole into the water, Eob, who seemed to 
be looking in the opposite direction, was the first to see what 
had happened. Then Dick pulled so savagely that he turned 
the boat round. 

That morning at breakfast in his chambers Eob had no 
thought of spending the day on the river. He had to be at the 
Wire office at ten o’clock in the evening, and during the day 
he meant to finish one of the many articles which he still wrote 


WHEK A man’s single. 


127 


for other journals that would seldom take them. The knowl- 
edge that Sir Clement Dow ton had been to Molesey disquieted 
him, chiefly because Mary Abinger had said nothing about it. 
Having given himself fifty reasons for her reticence, he pushed 
them from him, and vowed wearily that he would go to the 
house-boat no more. Then Dick walked in to suggest that 
they might run down for an hour or two to Molesey, and Rob 
agreed at once. He shaped out in the train a subtle question 
about Sir Clement that he intended asking Mary, but on reach- 
ing the plank he saw her feeding the swans, with the baronet 
by her side. Rob felt like a conjurer whose trick has not 
worked properly. Giving himself just half a minute to reflect 
that it was all over, he affected the coldly courteous, and 
smiled in a way that was meant to be heart-rending. Mary 
did not mind that, but it annoyed her to see the band of his 
neck-tie slipping over his collar. 

It was the day of the Sunbury Regatta, but the party from 
the “ Tawny Owl ” twisted past the racers, leaving Dick, who 
wanted a newspaper, behind. When he rejoined them beyond 
the village, the boat was towing the punt. 

‘‘ Why,’^ said Dick, in some astonishment to Rob, who was 
rowing now, “ I did not know you could scull like that.^’ 

‘‘ I have been practicing a little,’^ answered Rob. 

‘‘ When he came down here the first time,’’ Mrs. Meredith 
explained to Sir Clement, he did not know how to hold an 
oar. I am afraid he is one of those men who like to be best 
at everything. ” 

‘‘ He certainly knows how to scull now,” admitted the bar- 
onet, beginning to think that Rob was perhaps a dangerous 
man. Sir Clement was a manly gentleman, but his politics 
were that people should not climb out of the station they were 
born into. 

“ No,” Dick said, in answer to a question from Mr. Mere- 
dith, I could get only a local paper. The woman seemed 
surprised at my thinking she would take in the Scalping Knife 
or the Wire, and said, ‘ We’ve got a paper of our own.” 

‘‘ Read out the news to us, Richard,” suggested Mrs. Mere- 
dith. Dick hesitated. 

“Here, Will,” he said to his brother, “you got, that 
squeaky voice of yours specially to proclaim the news from a 
boat to a punt ten years distant. Angus is longing to pull us 
up the river unaided.” 

Will turned the paper round and round. 

“ Here is a funny thing,” he bawled out, “ about a stick. 
‘ A curious story, says a London correspondent, is going the 


128 


WHEiq- A man’s single. 


round of the clubs to-day, about the walking-stick of a well- 
known member of Parliament, whose name I am not at lib- 
erty to mention. The story has not, so far as I am aware, 
yet appeared in print, and it conveys a lesson to all persons 
who carry walking-sticks with knobs for handles, which gen- 
erate a peculiar disease in the palm of the hand. The member 
of Parliament referred to, with whom I am on intimate 
terms — ’ ” 

Eob looked at Dick, and they both groaned. 

‘‘ My stick again,” murmured Eob. 

Eead something else,” cried Dick, shivering. 

‘‘ Eh, what is wrong?” asked Mr. Meredith. 

‘‘You must know,” said Dick, “ that the first time I met 
Angus he told me imprudently some foolish story about a 
stick that bred a disease in the owner’s hand, owing to his 
pressing so heavily on the ball it had by way of a handle. I 
touched the story up a little, and made half a guinea out of it. 
Since then that note has been turning up in a new dress in the 
most unlikely places. First the London correspondents 
swooped down on it, and telegraphed it all over the country 
as something that had happened to well-known Cabinet min- 
isters. It appeared in the Paris Figaro as a true story about 
Sir Gladstone, and soon afterward it was across the Channel 
as a reminiscence of Thiers. Having done another tour of 
the provinces, it was taken to America by a lecturer, who ex- 
hibited the stick. Next it traveled the Continent, until it was 
sent home again by Paterfamilias Abroad, writing to the Times, 
who vsaid that the man who owned the stick was a well-known 
Alpine guide. Since then we have heard of it fitfully as doing 
well in Melbourne and Arkansas. It figured in the last vol- 
ume, or rather two volumes, of autobiography published, and 
now, you see, it is going the round of the clubs again^ pre- 
paratory to starting on another tour. I wish you had kept 
your stick to yourself, Angus.” 

“ That story will never die,” Eob said, in a tone of convic- 
tion. “ It will go round and round the world till the crack 
of doom. Our children’s children will tell it to each other.” 

“Yes,” said Dick, “ and say it happened to a friend of 
theirs.” 

A field falls into the river above S unbury in which there is 
a clump of trees of which many boating-parties know. Under 
the shadow of these Mrs. Meredith cast a table-cloth and 
pegged it down with salt-cellars. 

“ As we are rather in a hurry,” she said to the gentleman, 
“ I should prefer you not to help us,” 


WHElSr A MAK"S SINGLE. 


isa 

^ Eob wandered to the river-side with Wilb who would have 
liked to know whether he could jump a gate without putting 
his hands on it; and the other men leaned against the trees, 
wondering a little, perhaps, why ladies enjoy in the summer- 
time making chairs and tables of the ground. 

Eob was recovering from his scare, and made friends with 
Mary’s young brother. By particular request he not only 
leaped, the gate, but lifted it off its hinges, and this feat of 
strength so impressed Will that he would have brought the 
whole party down to see it done. Will was as fond of Mary 
as a proper respect for himself would allow, but he thought 
she would be a lucky girl if she got a fellow who could play 
with a heavy gate like that. 

Being a sharp boy. Will noticed a cloud settle on Eob’s 
face, and looking toward the clump of trees, he observed that 
Mary and the baronet were no longer there. In the next field 
two figures were disappearing, the taller, a man in a tennis- 
jacket, carrying a pail. Sir Clement had been sent for water, 
and Mary had gone with him to show him the spring. Eob 
scared after them; and if Will could have got hold of Mary he 
would have shaken her for spoiling everything. 

Mrs. Meredith was meditating sending some one to the 
spring to show them the way back, when Sir Clement and 
Mar}^ again came into sight. They did not seem to be saying 
much, yet were so engrossed that they zigzagged toward the 
rest of the party like persons seeking their destination in a 
mist. Just as they reached the trees Mary looked up so softly 
at her companion that Eob turned away in an agony. 

“ It is a long way to the spring,” were Mary’s first words, 
as if she expected to be taken to task for their lengthened ab- 
sence. 

‘‘ So it seems,” said Dick. 

The baronet crossed with the pail to Mrs. Meredith, and 
stopped half-way like one waking from a dream. Mrs. Mere- 
dith held out her hand for the pail, and the baronet stam- 
mered with vexation. Simultaneously the whole party saw 
what was wrong, but Will only was so merciless as to put the 
discovery into words. 

“ Why,” cried the boy, pausing to whistle in the middle of 
his sentence, “ you have forgotten the water!” 

It was true. The pail was empty. Sir Clement turned it 
upside down, and made a seat of it. 

I am so sorry,” he said to Mrs. Meredith, trying to speak 
lightly. ‘‘ I assure you I thought I had filled the pail at the 


130 WHEN A 3IAN’S SINGLE. 

spring. It is entirely my fault, for I told Miss Abinger I had 
done so.” 

Mary’s face was turned from the others, so that they could 
not see how she took the incident. It gave them so much to 
think of that Will was the only one of the whole party who 
saw its ridiculous aspect. 

‘‘ Put it down to sunstroke. Miss Meredith,” the baronet 
said to Nell; ‘‘I shall never allow myself to be placed in a po- 
sition of trust again.” 

“ Does that mean,” asked Dick, ‘‘ that you object to being 
sent back again to the spring?” 

“ Ah, I forgot,” said Sir Clement. ‘‘You may depend on 
me this time.” 

He seized the pail once more, glad to get away by himself 
to some place where he could denounce his stupidity unheard; 
but Mrs. Meredith would not let him go. As for Mary, she 
was looking so haughty now that no one would have dared to 
mention the pail again. 

During the meal Dick felt compelled to talk so much that 
he was unusually dull company for the remainder of the week. 
The others were only genial now and again. Sir Clement 
sought in vain to gather from Mary’s eyes that she had for- 
given him for making the rest of the party couple him and 
her in their thoughts. Mrs. Meredith would have liked to 
take her daughter aside and discussed the situation, and Nell 
was looking covertly at Rob, who, she thought, bore it brave- 
ly. Rob had lately learned carving from a hand-book, and 
was dissecting a fowl, murmuring to himself, “ Cut from a to 
h along the line f g, taking care to sever the wing at the point 
X*.” Like all the others, he thought that Mary had promised 
to be the baronet’s wife, and Nell’s heart palpitated for him 
when she saw how gently, he passed Sir Clement the mustard. 
Such a load lay on Rob that he felt suffocated. Nell noticed 
indignantly that Mary was not even “ nice ” to him. For the 
first time in her life, or at least for several weeks, Miss Mere- 
dith was wroth with Miss Abinger. Mary might have been on 
the rack, but she went on proudly eating bread and chicken. 
Relieved of his fears, Dick raged internally at Mary for treat- 
ing Angus cruelly, and Nell, who had always dreaded lest 
things should not go as they had gone, sat sorrowfully because 
she had not been disappointed. They all knew how much they 
cared for Rob now, all except Mary of the stony heart. 

Sir Clement began to tell some travelers’ tales, omitting 
many things that were creditable to his bravery, and Rob 
found himself listening with a show of interest, wondering a 


Jl MAK’S SIKGUE. 


131 


little at his own audacity in competing with such a candidate. 
By and by some members of the little party drifted away from 
the others, and an accident left Mary and Rob together. Mary 
was aimlessly plucking the berries from a twig in her hand, 
and all the sign she gave that she knew of Rob’s presence was 
in not raising her head. If love is ever unselfish his was at 
that moment. He took a step forward, and then Mary, start- 
ing back, looked round hurriedly in the direction of Sir Clem- 
ent. What Rob thought was her meaning flashed through 
him, and he stood still in pain. 

‘‘ I am sorry you think so meanly of me,” he said, and 
passed on. He did not see Mary’s arms rise involuntarily, as 
if they would call him back. But even then she did not re- 
alize what Rob’s thoughts were. A few yards away Rob, mov- 
ing blindly, struck against Dick. 

‘‘Ah, I see Mary there,” her brother said; “I want to 
speak to her. Why, how white you are, man!” 

“ Abinger,” Rob answered, hoarsely, “ tell me. I must 
know. Is she engaged to Dowton?” 

Dick hesitated. He felt sorry for Rob. “ Yes, she is,” he 
replied. “You remember I spoke of this to you before.” 
Then Dick moved on to have it out with Mary. She was 
standing with the twig in her hand, just as Rob had left her. 

“ Mary,” said her brother, bluntly, “ this is too bad. I 
would have expected it from any one sooner than from you.” 

“ What are you talking about?” asked Mary, frigidly. 

“ I am talking about Angus, my friend. Yes, you may 
smile, but it is not play to him.” 

“ What have I done to your friend?” said Mary, looking 
Dick in the face. 

“You have crushed the life for the time being out of as fine 
a fellow as I ever knew. You might at least have amused your- 
self with some one a little more experienced in the ways of 
women.” 

“How dare you, Dick?” exclaimed Mary, stamping her 
foot. 

All at once Dick saw that though she spoke bravely her lips 
were trembling. A sudden fear seized him. 

“ I presume that you are engaged to Dowton?” he said, 
quickly. 

“ It is presumption, certainly,” replied Mary. 

“Why, what else could any one think after that ridiculous 
affair of the water?” 

“ I shall never forgive him for that,” Mary said, flushing. 

“ But he — ” 


132 


WHEN A MAN^S SINGLE. 


No. Yes, he did; but we are not engaged.” 

‘‘You mean to say that you refused him?” 

“Yes.” 

Dick thought it over, tapping the while on a tree-trunk like 
a woodpecker. 

“ Why?” he asked at last. 

Mary shrugged her shoulders, hut said nothing. 

“You seemed exceedingly friendly,” said Dick, “ v^hen 
you returned here together.” 

“ I suppose,” Mary said, bitterly, “ that the proper thing 
in th(P circumstances would have been to wound his ^ feelings 
unnecessarily as much as possible?” 

“ Forgive me, dear,” Dick said, kindly; “ of course I mis- 
understood — but this will be a blow to our father.” 

Mary looked troubled. 

“ I could not marry him, you know, Dick,” she faltered. 

“ Certainly not,” Dick said, “ if you don’t care sufficiently 
for him; and yet he seems a man that a girl might care for.” 

“ Oh, he is,” Mary exclaimed. “ He was so manly and 
kind that I wanted to be nice to him.” 

“You have evidently made up your mind, sister mine,” 
Dick said, “ to die a spinster.” 

“Yes,” said Mary, with a white face. 

Suddenly Dick took both her hands, and looked her in the 
face. 


“ Do you care for any other person, Mary?” he asked, 
sharply. 

Mary shook her head, but she did not return her brother’s 
gaze. Her hands were trembling. She tried to pull them 
from him, but he held her firmly until she looked at him. 
Then she drew up her head proudly. Her hands ceased to 
shake. She had become marble again. 

Dick was not deceived. ■ He dropped her hands, and leaned 
despondently against a tree. 

‘‘ Angus — ” he began. 

“You must not,” Mary cried; and he stopped abruptly. 

“ It is worse than I could have feared,” Dick said. 

“No, it is not,” said Mary, quickly. “It is nothing. I 
don’t know what you mean.” 

“It was my fault bringing you together. I should have 
been more — ” 

“ No, it was not. I met him before. Whom are you speak- 
ing about?” 

“ Think of our father, Mary.” 

“Oh, I have!” 


WHEN' A man’s single. 


133 


He is not like you. How could he dare — 

‘‘ Dick, don’t.’’ 

Will bounced toward them with a hop, step, and jump, and 
Mrs. Meredith was signaling that she wanted both. 

‘‘ Never speak of this again,” Mary said in a low voice to 
Dick as they walked toward the others. 

“ 1 hope I shall never feel forced to do so,” Dick replied. 

‘‘You will not,” Mary said, in her haste. “But, Dick,” 
she added, anxiously, “ surely the others did not think what 
you thought? It would be so unpleasant for Sir Clement.” 

“ Well, I can’t say,” Dick answered. 

“ At all events, he did not?’^ 

“ Who is he?” 

“ Oh, Dick, I mean Mr. Angus!” 

Dick bit his lip, and would have replied angrily; but per- 
haps he loved this sister of his more than any other person in 
the world. 

“ Angus, I supposed, noticed nothing,” he answered, in 
order to save Mary pain, “ except that you and Dowton seemed 
very good friends.” 

Dick knew that this was untrue. He did not remember 
then that the good-natured lies live forever like the others. 

Evening came on before they returned to the river, and 
Sunbury, now blazing with fireworks, was shooting flaming 
arrows at the sky. The sweep of water at the village was one 
broad bridge of boats, lighted by torches and Chinese lanterns 
of every hue. Stars broke overheard, and fell in showers. It 
was only possible to creep ahead by pulling in the oars and 
holding on to the stream of craft of all kinds that moved 
along by inches. Bob, who was punting Dick and Mary, had 
to lay down his pole and adopt the same tactics, but boat and 
punt were driven apart, and soon tangled hopelessly in differ- 
ent knots. 

“ It is nearly eight o’clock,” Dick said, after he had given 
up looking for the rest of the party. “ You must not lose 
your train, Angus.” 

“ I thought you were to stay overnight, Mr. Angus,” Mary 
said. 

Possibly she meant that had she known he had to return to 
London she would have begun to treat him better earlier in 
the day, but Bob thought she only wanted to be polite for the 
last time. 

“ I have to be at the Wire/’ he replied, “ before ten.” 

Mary, who had not much patience with business, and fan- 
cied that it oould always be deferred until next day if one 


134 


WHEIT A MAK’S single. 


wanted to defer it very much, said, Oh!” and then asked, 
‘‘ Is there not a train that would suit from Sunhury?” 

Rob, blinder now than ever, thought that she wanted to get 
rid of him. 

‘‘If I could catch the 8:15 here,” he said, “I would 
reach Waterloo before half past nine.” 

“ What do you think?” asked Dick. “ There is no time to 
lose.” 

Rob waited for Mary to speak, but she said nothing. 

“ I had better try it,” he said. 

With difficulty the punt was brought near a landing-stage, 
and Rob jumped out. 

“ Good-bye,” he said to Mary. 

“ Good-night,” she replied. Her mouth was quivering, 
but how could he know? 

“ Wait a moment,” Dick exclaimed. “We might see him 
off, Mary.” 

Mary hesitated. 

“ The others might wonder what had become of us,” she 
said. 

“ Oh, we need not attempt to look for them in this maze,” 
her brother answered. “We shall only meet them again at 
the ‘ Tawny Owl.’ ” 

The punt was left in charge of a boatman, and the three 
set off silently for the station, Mary walking between the two 
men. They might have been soldiers guarding a deserter. 

What were Mary’s feelings? She did not fully realize as yet 
that Rob thought she was engaged to Dowton. She fancied 
that he was sulky because a circumstance of which he knew 
nothing made her wish to treat Sir Clement with more than 
usual consideration; and now she thought that Rob, having 
brought it on himself, deserved to remain miserable until he 
saw that it was entirely his own fault. But she only wanted 
to be cruel to him now to forgive him for it afterward. 

Rob had ceased to ask himself if it was possible that she had 
not promised to be Dowton’s wife. His anger had passed 
away. Her tender heart, he thought, made her wish to be good 
to him — for the last time. 

As for Dick, he read the thoughts of both, and inwardly 
called himself a villain for not reading them out aloud. Yet 
by his merely remaining silent these two lovers would prob- 
ably never meet again, and was not that what would be best 
for Mary? 

Rob leaned out of the carriage window to say good-bye, and 
Dick, ill at ease, turned his back on the train. It had been a 


WHEK A MAK"S STKGLE. 


135 


hard day for Mary, and as Rob pressed her hand warmly, a 
film came over her eyes. Rob saw it, and still he thought 
that she was only sorry foi him. There are far better and 
nobler things than loving a woman and getting her, but Rob 
wanted Mary to know, by the last look he gave her, that so 
long as it meant her happiness his misery was only an unusual 
form of joy. 


CHAPTER XV. 

COLOKEL ABII^GER TAKES COMMAND. 

One misty morning, about three weeks after the picnic, 
Dick found himself a prisoner in the quadrangle of Frobisher’s 
Inn. He had risen to catch an early train, but the gates were 
locked, and the porter in charge had vanished from his box. 
Dick chafed, and tore round the inn in search of him. It was 
barely six o’clock, which is three hours after midnight in 
London. The windows of the inn had darkened one by one, 
until for hours the black building had slept heavily with only 
one eye open. Dick recognized the window, and saw Rob’s 
shadow cast on its white blind. He was standing there, look- 
ing up a little uneasily, when the porter tramped into sight. 

“ Is Mr. Angus often as late as this?” Mary’s brother 
paused to ask at the gate. 

“ Why, sir,” the porter answered, ‘‘I am on duty until 
eight o’clock, and as likely as not he will still be sitting there 
when I go. His shadow up there has become a sort of com- 
panion to me in the long nights, but I sometimes wonder what 
nas come over the gentleman of late.” 

He is busy, I suppose; that is all,” Dick said, sharply. 

The porter shook his head doubtfully, like one who knew 
the ways of literary hands. He probably wrote himself. 

Mr. Angus only came in from his office at three o’clock, 
he said, ‘‘ and you would think he would have had enough of 
writing by that time. You can see his arm going on the blind 
though yet, and it won’t be out of his common if he has an- 
other long walk before he goes to bed.” 

** Does he walk so late as this?” asked Dick, to whom six 
in the morning was an hour of the night. 

“ I never knew such a gentleman for walking,” replied the 
porter; “ and when I open the gate to him he is off at six 
miles an hour. I can hear the echo of his feet two or three 
streets off. He doesn’t look as if he did it for pleasures, 
either ’ ’ 

“ What else ivould he do it foi’?” 


WEEK A man’s single. 


136 

“ I can’t say. He looks as if he wanted to run away from 
himself.” 

Dick passed out, with a forced laugh. He knew that since 
saying good-bye to Mary at Sunbury Station, Bob had hardly 
dared to stop working and face the future. The only rest Rob 
got was when he was striding along the great thoroughfares, 
where every one’s life except his own seemed to have a pur- 
pose. But it was only when he asked himself for what end 
he worked that he stopped working. There were moments 
when he could not believe that it was all over. He saw him- 
self dead, and the world going on as usual. When he read 
what he had written the night before, he wondered how people 
could be interested in such matters. The editor of the Wire 
began to think of this stolid Scotsman every time there was a 
hitch in the office, but Rob -scarcely noticed that he was mak- 
ing progress. It could only mean ten or twenty pounds more 
a month; and what was that to a man who h^ only himself 
to think of, and had gathered a library on twenty s hillin gs a 
week? He bought some good cigars, however. 

Dick, who was longing for his father’s return from the Con- 
tinent so that the responsibility for this miserable business 
might be transferred to the colonel’s shoulders, frequently 
went into Rob’s rooms to comfort him, but did not know 
how to do it. They sat silently on opposite sides of the very 
hearth-rug which Mary had once made a remark about — Rob 
had looked interestedly at the rug after she went away — and 
each thought that, but for the other’s sake, he would rather 
be alone. 

What Dick felt most keenly was Rob’s increased regard for 
him. Rob never spoke of the Tawny Owl ” without an 
effort, but he showed that he appreciated Dick’s unspoken 
sympathy. If affairs could have righted themselves in that 
way, Mary’s brother would have preferred to be turned with 
contumely out of Rob’s rooms, where, as it was, and despite 
his friendship for Rob, he seemed now to be only present on 
false pretenses. Dick was formally engaged to Nell now, but 
he tried at times to have no patience with Rob. Perhaps he 
thought a little sadly in his own rooms that to be engaged is 
not all the world. 

Dick had hoped that the misunderstanding which parted Rob 
and Mary at Sunbury would keep them apart without further 
intervention from him. That was not to be. The next time 
he went to Molesey he was asked why he had not brought 
Mr. Angus with him; and though it was not Mary who asked 


WHEN A man’s single. 137 

the question, she stopped short on her way out of the saloon to 
hear his answer. 

“ He did not seem to want to come,"^ Dick replied, reluc- 
tantly. 

I know why Mr. Angus would not come with you,” Nell 
said to Dick when they were alone; “ he thinks Mary is en- 
gaged to Sir Clement.” 

Nonsense,” said Dick. 

I am sure of it,” said Nell; -‘you know we all thought 
so that day we were up the river.” 

“ Then let him think so if he chooses,” Dick said, harshly. 
“ It is no affair of his.” 

“ Oh, it is!” Nell exclaimed. “ But I suppose it would 
never do, Dick?” 

“ What you are thinking of is quite out of the question,” 
replied Dick, feeling that it was a cruel fate which compelled 
him to act a father’s part to Mary; “ and besides, Mary does 
not care for him like that. She told me so herself. ' ’ 

“ Oh, but she does,” Nell replied, in a tone of conviction. 

“ Did she tell you so?” 

“ No, she said she didn’t,” answered Nell, as if that made 
no difference. 

“ Well,” said Dick, wearily, “ it is much better that Angus 
should not come here again.” 

Nevertheless, when Dick returned to London he carried in 
his pocket an invitation to Rob to spend the following Satur- 
day on the “ Tawny Owl.” It was a very nice note in Mary 
Abinger’s handwriting, and Dick would have liked to drop it 
over the Hungerfield Bridge. He gave it to Rob, however, 
and stood on the defensive. 

The note began, “ Dear Mr. Angus, — Mrs. Meredith would 
be very pleased if you could — ” 

The blood came to Rob’s face as he saw the handwriting, 
but it went as quickly. 

“ They ask me down next Saturday,” Rob said, bluntly, 
to Dick, “ but you know why I can’t go.” 

“You had better come,” miserable Dick said, defying him- 
self. 

“ She is to marry Dowton, is she not?” Rob asked, but 
with no life in his voice. 

Dick turned away his head, to leave the rest to fate. 

“ So, of course, I must not go,” Rob continued, bravely. 

Dick did not dare to look him in the face, but Rob put his 
hand on the shoulder of Mary’s brother. 

“ I was a madman,” he said, “ to think that she could eyer 


138 WHEK A man’s single. 

have cared for me. But this will not interfere with our friend- 
ship, Abinger?’’ 

“ Surely not,” said Dick, taking Rob’s hand. 

It was one of those awful moments in men’s lives when they 
allow, face to face, that they like each other. 

Rob concluded that Mrs. Meredith, knowing nothing of his 
attachment for Mary, saw no reason why he should not return 
to the house-boat, and that circumstances had compelled Mary 
to write the invitation. His blundering honesty would not 
let him concoct a polite excuse for declining it, and Mrs. Mer- 
edith took his answer amiss, while Nell dared not say what 
she thought for fear of Dick. Mary read his note over once, 
and then went for a solitary walk round the island. Rob saw 
her from the towpath, where he had been prowling about for 
hours in hopes of catching a last glimpse of her. Her face was 
shaded beneath her big straw hat, and no baby-yacht, such as 
the Thames sports, ever glided down the river more prettily 
than she tripped along the island path. Once her white frock 
caught in a dilapidated seat, and she had to stoop to loosen it. 
Rob's heart stopped beating for a moment just then. The 
way Mary extricated herself was another revelation. He re- 
membered having thought it delightful that she seldom knew 
what day of the month it was, and having looked on in an 
ecstasy while she searched for the pocket of her dress. The 
day before, Mrs. Meredith had not been able to find her 
pocket, and Rob had thought it foolish of ladies not to wear 
their pockets where they could be easily got at. 

Rob did not know it, but Mary saw him. She had but to 
beckon, and in three minutes he would have been across the 
ferry. She gave no sign, however, but sat dreamily on the 
ramshackle seat that patient anglers have used until the 
Thames fishes must think seat and angler part of the same 
vegetable. Though Mary would not for worlds have let him 
know that she saw him, she did not mind his standing afar off 
and looking at her. Once after that Rob started involuntarily 
for Molesey; but realizing what he was about by the time he 
reached Surbiton, he got out of the train there and returned 
to London. 

An uneasy feeling possessed Dick that Mary knew of the 
misunderstanding which kept Rob away, and possibly even of 
her brother’s share in fostering it. If so, she was too proud 
to end it. He found that if he mentioned Rob to her she did 
not answer a word. Nell’s verbal experiments in the same 
direction met with a similar fate, and every one was glad when 
the colonel reappeared to take command. 


WHEK A man’s single. 


139 


Colonel Abinger was only in London for a few days, being 
on his wav to Glen Quharity, the tenant of which was already 
telegraphing him glorious figures about the grouse. Mary 
was going, too, and the Merediths were shortly to return to 
Silchester. 

“ There is a Thrums man on this stair,” Dick said to his 
father one afternoon in Frobisher’s Inn, ‘‘ a particular friend 
of mine, though I have treated him villainously.” 

“ x\h,” said the colonel, who had just come up from the 
house-boat, then you might have him in, and make your 
difierence up. Perhaps he could give me some information 
about the shooting.” 

“Possibly,” Dick said; “but we have no difference to 
make up, because he thinks me as honest as himself. You 
have met him, I believe.” 

“ What did you say his name was?” 

“ His name is Angus.” 

“ I can’t recall any Angus.” 

“ Ah, you never knew him so well as Mary and I do.” 

“ Mary?” asked the colonel, looking up quickly. 

“ Yes,” said Dick. “Do you remember a man from a 
Silchester paper who was at the castle last Christmas?” 

“ Wliat!” cried the colonel, “ an underbred, poaching fel- 
low who — ” 

“ Hot at all,” said Dick, “ an excellent gentleman, who is 
to make his mark here, and, as I have said, my very particular 
friend.” 

“ That fellow turned up again!” groaned the colonel. 

“ I have something more to tell you of him,” continued 
Dick, remorselessly. “ I have reason to believe, as we say on 
the press when hard up for copy, that he is in love with 
Mary.” 

The colonel sprung from his seat. “ Be calm,” said Dick. 

'“I am calm,” said the colonel, not saying another word, so 
fearfulVas he of what Dick might tell him next. 

“ That would not perhaps so much matter,” Dick said, 
coming to rest at the back of a chair, “if it were not that 
Mary seems to have an equal regard for him.” 

Colonel Abinger’s hands clutched the edge of the table, and 
it was not a look of love he cast at Dick. 

“ If this be true,” he exclaimed, his voice breaking in agi- 
tation, “ I shall never forgive you, Eichard, never. But I 
don’t believe it.” 

Dick felt sorry for his father. 

“ It is a fact that has to be faced,” he said, more gently. 


140 


mm A man’s single. 


Why — why — why, the man is a pauper!’’ 

Not a bit of it/’ said Dick. “ He may be on the regular 
staff of the Wire any day now. ” 

‘‘You dare to look me in the face, and tell me you have 
encouraged this, this — ” cried the colonel, choking in a rush 
of words. 

“ Quite the contrary,” Dick said; “ I have done more than 
I had any right to do to put an end to it.” 

“ Then it is ended?” 

“ I can’t say.” 

' “It shall be ended!” shouted the colonel, making the table 
groan under his fist. 

“ In a manner,” Dick said, “you are responsible for the 
whole affair. Do you remember when you were at Glen 
Quharity two or three years ago asking a parson called Rorri- 
son, father of Rorrison the war correspondent, to use his son’s 
press influence on behalf of a Thrums man? Well, Angus is 
that man. Is it not strange how this has come about?” 

“It is enough to make me hate myself,” replied the irate 
colonel, though it had not quite such an effect as that. 

When his father had subsided a little, Dick told him of what 
had been happening in England during the last month or 
two. There had been a change of Government, but the cliief 
event was the audacity of a plebeian in casting his eyes on a 
patrician’s daughter. What are politics when the pipes in the 
bath-room burst? 

“ So you see,” Dick said, in conclusion, “ I have acted the 
part of the unrelenting parent fairly well, and I don’t like it.” 

“ Had I been in your place,” replied the colonel, “ I would 
have acted it a good deal better.” 

“You would have told Angus that you considered him, 
upon the whole, the meanest thing that crawls, and that if he 
came within a radius of five miles of your daughter you 
would have the law of him? Yes; but that sort of trespassing 
is not actionable nowadays; and besides, I don’t know what 
Mary might have said.” 

“ Trespassing!” echoed the colonel; “ I could have had the 
law of him for trespassing nearly a year ago.” 

“You mean the time you caught him fishing in the Dome? 
I only heard of that at second-hand, but I have at least no 
doubt that he fished to some effect. ” 

“ He can fish,” admitted the colonel; “ I should like to 
know what flies he used.” 

Dick laughed. 

^ “ Angus,” he said, “ is a man with a natural aptitude for 


WHEK A MAK’s STKGLE. 


141 


things. He does not, I suspect, eyen make love like a begin- 
ner. 

‘‘ You are on his side, Richard.’’ 

It has not seemed like it so far, but I confess I have cer- 
tainly had enough of shuffling.” 

‘‘ There will be no more shuffling,” said the colonel, fierce- 
ly. “I shall see this man and tell him what I think of him. 
As for Mary — ” 

He paused. 

“ Yes,” said Dick, Mary is the difficulty. At present I 
can not even tell you what she is thinking of it all. Mary is 
the one person I could never look in the face when I medi- 
tated an underhand action — I remember how that sense of 
honor of hers used to annoy me when I was a boy — and so I 
have not studied her countenance much of late.” 

‘‘ She shall marry Dowton,” said the colonel, decisively. 

“ It is probably a pity, but I don’t think she will,” replied 
Dick. Of course you can prevent her marrying Angus by 
simply refusing your consent.” 

“ Yes; and I shall refuse it.” 

‘‘ Though it should break her heart, she will never com- 
plain,” said Dick; “ but it does seem a little hard on Mary 
that we should mar her life rather than endure a disappoint- 
ment ourselves.” 

“ You don’t look at it in the proper light,” said the colonel, 
who, like most persons, made the proper light himself; ‘‘in 
saving her from this man, we do her the greatest kindness in 
our power.” 

“ Um,” said Dick, “ of course. That was how I put it to 
myself; but just consider Angus calmly, and see what case we 
have against him.” 

“ He is not a gentleman,” said the colonel. 

“ He ought not to be, according to the proper light, but he 
is.” 

“Pshaw!” the colonel exclaimed, pettishly. “He may 
have worked himself up into some sort of position, like other 
discontented men of his class, but he never had a father.” 

“ He says he had a very good one. Weigh him, if you like, 
against Dowton, who is a good fellow in his way, but never, 
so far as I know, did an honest day’s work in his life. Dow- 
tou’s whole existence has been devoted to pleasure-seeking, 
while Angus has been climbing up ever since he w^as born, and 
with a heavy load on his back, too, most of the. time. If he 
goes on as he is doing, he will have both a good income and » 
good position shortly.” 


14 « 


irilElT A man’s single. 


Dowton’s position is made/’ said the colonel. 

Exactly/’ said Dick, ‘‘ and Angus is making his for him- 
self. Whatever other distinction we draw between them is a 
selfish one, and I question if it does us much credit.” 

“ I have no doubt,” said the colonel, ‘‘ that Mary’s pride 
will make her see this matter as I do.” 

‘‘ It will at least make her sacrifice herself for our pride, if 
you insist on that.” 

Mary’s father loved her as he had loved her mother, though 
he liked to have his own way with both of them. His voice 
broke a little as he answered Dick. 

‘‘You have a poor opinion of your father, my boy,” he 
said. “ I think I would endure a good deal if Mary were to 
be the happier for it,” 

Dick felt a little ashamed of himself. 

“ Whatever I may say,” he answered, “ I hare at least 
acted much as you would have done yourself. Forgive me, 
father.” 

The colonel looked up with a wan smile. 

“ Let us talk of your affairs rather, Richard,” he said. “ I 
have at least nothing to say against Miss Meredith.” 

Dick moved uncomfortably in his chair, and then stood up, 
thinking he heard a knock at the door. 

“ Are you there, Abinger?” some one called out. “ I have 
something very extraordinary to tell you.” 

Dick looked at his father, and hesitated. “ It is Angus,” 
he said. 

“ Let him in,” said the colonel. 


CHAPTER XVI. 

THE BAKBEE OF EOTTEN EOW. 

Rob started when he saw Mary’s father. 

“We have met before, Mr. Angus,” said the colonel, court- 
eously. 

“ Yes,” answered Rob, without a tremor; “ at Dome Cas- 
tle, was it not?” 

This was the Angus who had once been unable to salute 
anybody without wondering what on earth he ought to say 
next. This was the colonel whose hand had gaped five min- 
utes before for Rob’s throat. The frown on the face of Mary’s 
father was only a protest against her lover’s improved appear- 
ance. Rob was no longer the hobbledehoy of last Christmas. 
He was rather particular about the cut of his coat. He had 
forgotten that he was not a colonePs social equal. In short, 


WHTIK A MAK’s SII7GLE. 


14 ? 


\rhen he entered a room now he knew what to do with his hat. 
Their host saw the two men measuring each other. Dick 
never smiled, but sometimes his mouth twitched, as now. 

“You had something special to tell me, had you not?” ho 
asked Eob. 

“ Well,” Eob replied, with hesitation, “ I have something 
for you in my rooms.” 

“ Suppose my father — ” began Dick, meaning to invite the 
colonel upstairs, but pausing as he saw Eob’s brows contract. 
The colonel saw too, and resented it. No man likes to be 
left on the outskirts of a secret. 

“ Eun up yourself, Abinger,” Eob said, seating himself 
near Mary’s father; “ and, stop; here are my keys. I locked 
it in.” 

“ Why,” asked Dick, while his father also looked up, 
“ have you some savage animal up there?” 

“No,” said Eob, “ it is very tame.” 

Dick climbed the stair, after casting a quizzical look behind 
him, which meant that he wondered how long the colonel and 
Eob would last in a small room together. He unlocked the 
door of Eob’s chambers more quickly* than he opened it, for 
he had no notion of what might be caged up inside, and as 
soon as he had entered he stopped, amazed. All men of 
course are amazed once in their lives — when they can get a 
girl to look at them. This was Dick's second time. 

It was the hour of the evening when another ten minutes 
can be stolen from the day by a readjustment of one’s window 
curtains. Eob’s blind, however, had given way in the cords, 
and instead of being pulled up was twisted into two triangles. 
Just sufficient light straggled through the window to let Dick 
see the man who was standing on the hearth- rug looking sul- 
lenly at his boots. There was a smell of oil in the room. 

“ Dowton!” Dick exclaimed; “ what masquerade is this?” 

The other put up his elbow, as if to ward ofi a blow, and 
then Dick opened the eyes of anger. 

“ Oh,” he said, “ it is you, is it?” 

They stood looking at each other in silence. 

“Just stand there, my fine fellow,” Dick said, “ until I 
light the gas. I must have a better look at you.” 

The stranger turned longing eyes on the door as the light 
struck him. 

“Not a single step in that direction,” said Dick, “ unless 
you want to go over the balusters.” 

Abinger came closer to the man who was Sir Clement Dow- 
ton’s double, and looked him over. He wore a white linen 


144 


WHEN A man's single. 


jacket, and an apron to match, and it would have been less 
easy to mistake him for a baronet aping the barber than it 
had been for the barber to ape the baronet. 

‘‘ Your name?’’ asked Dick. 

Josephs,” the other mumbled. 

‘‘You are a barber, I presume?” 

“ I follow the profession of hair-dressing,” replied Josephs^ 
with his first show of spirit.' 

Had Dick not possessed an inscrutable face, Josephs would 
have known that his inquisitor was suffering from a sense of 
the ludicrous. Dick had just remembered that his father was 
down-stairs. 

“ Well, Josephs, I shall have to hand you over to the po- 
hce.” 

“ I think not,” said Josephs, in his gentlemanly voice. 

“ Why not?” asked Dick. 

“ Because then it would all come out.” 

“ What would all come out?” 

“ The way your father was deceived. The society papers 
would make a great deal of it, and he would not like that.” 

Dick groaned, though the other did not hear him. 

“ You read the society journals, Josephs?” 

“ Bather!” said Josephs. 

“ Perhaps you write for them?” 

Josephs did not say. 

“ Well, how were you brought here?” Dick asked. 

“Your friend,” said Josephs, sulkily, “came into our 
place of business in Southampton Eow half an hour ago, and 
saw me. He insisted on bringing me here at once in a cab. 
I wanted to put on a black coat, but he would not hear of it.” 

“ Ah, then, I suppose you gave Mr. Angus the full confes- 
sion of your roguery as you came along?” 

“ He would not let me speak,” said Josephs. “ He said it 
was no affair of his.” 

“No? Then you will be so good as to favor me with th© 
pretty story.” 

Dick lighted a cigar and seated himself. The sham baronet 
looked undecidedly at a chair. 

“ Certainly not,” said Dick; “ you can stand.” 

Josephs told his tale demurely, occasionally with a gleam of 
humor, and sometimes with a sigh. His ambition to be a 
gentleman, but with no desire to know the way, had come to 
him one day in his youth when another gentleman fiung a six- 
pence at him. In a moment Josephs saw what it was to be- 
long to the upper circles. He hurried to a street comer to 


WHEN A man’s single. 


145 


get liis boots blackened, tossed the menial the sixpence, tell- 
ing him to keep the change, and returned home in an ecstasy, 
penniless, but with an object in life. That object was to do it 
again. 

At the age of eighteen Josephs slaved merrily during the 
week, but had never any money by Monday morning. He 
was a gentleman every Saturday evening. Then he lived; for 
the remainder of the week he was a barber. One of his de- 
lights at this period was to have his hair cut at Truefitt^s, and 
complain that it was badly done. . Having reproved his attend- 
ant in a gentlemanly way, he tipped him handsomely and re- 
tired in a glory. It was about tliis time that he joined a Con- 
servative association. 

Soon afterward Josephs was to be seen in Rotten Row, in 
elegant apparel, hanging over the railing. He bowed and 
raised his hat to the ladies who took his fancy, and, though 
they did not respond, glowed with the sensation of being 
practically a man of fashion. Then he returned to the shop. 

The years glided by, and Josephs discovered that he was 
perfectly content to remain a hair-dresser if he could be a gen- 
tleman now and again. Having supped once in a fashionable 
restaurant, he was satisfied for a fortnight or so with a sausage 
and onions at home. Then the craving came back. He saved 
up for two months on one occasion, and then took Saturday 
to Monday at Cookham, when he passed as Henry K. Talbot 
Devereux. He was known to the waiters and boatmen there 
as the gentleman who had quite a pleasure in tossing them 
half-crowns, and for a month afterward he had sausage with- 
out onions. So far this holiday had been the memory of his 
life. He studied the manners and language of the gentlemen 
who came to the shop in which he was employed, and began to 
dream of a big thing annually. He had learned long ago that 
he was remarkably good-looking. 

For a whole year Josephs abstained from being a gentleman, 
except in the smallest way, for he was burning to have a han- 
dle to his name, and feared that it could not be done at less 
than twenty pounds. His week’s holiday came, and found 
Josephs not ready for it. He had only twelve pounds. With 
a self-denial that was magnificent, he crushed his aspirations, 
took only two days of delight at Brighton, and continued to 
save up for the title. Next summer saw him at the Anglers’ 
Retreat, near Dome Castle. ‘‘Sir Clement Dowton” was 
the name on his Gladstone bag. A dozen times a day he 
looked at it, till it frightened him, and then he tore the label 
eff. Having done so, he put on a fresh one. 


146 


WHEN A 3IAN’S SINGLE. 


Josephs had selected his baronetcy with due care. Years 
previously he had been told that he looked like the twin- 
brother of Sir Clement Dowton, and on inquiry he had learned 
that the baronet was not in England. As for the Anglers^ 
Eetreat, he went there because he had heard that it was fre- 
quented by persons in the rank of life to which it was his in- 
tention to belong for the next week. He had never heard of 
Colonel Abinger until they met. The rest is known. Josephs 
dwelt on his residence at Dome Castle with his eyes shut, like 
a street Arab lingering lovingly over the grating of a bakery. 

Well, you are a very admirable rogue, Dick said, when 
Josephs had brought his story to an end, ‘‘ and, though I shall 
never be proud again, your fluency excuses our blindness. 
Where did you pick it up?’^ The barber glowed with gratifi- 
cation. 

It came naturally to me,” he answered. ‘‘ I was intended 
for a gentlemen. I dare say, now, I am about the only case 
on record of a man who took to pickles and French sauces the 
first time he tried them. Mushrooms were not an acquired 
taste with me, nor black coffee, nor caviare, nor liqueurs, and 
I enjoy celery with my cheese. What I liked best of all was 
the little round glasses you dip your fingers into when the 
dinner is finished. I dream of them still.” 

“ You are burst up for the present, Josephs, I presume?” 

‘‘ Yes; but I shall be able to do something in a small way 
next Christmas. I should like to put it off till summer, but I 
can’t.” 

There must be no more donning the name of Dowton,” 
said Dick, trying to be stern. 

I suppose I shall have to give that up,” the barber said, 
with a sigh. ‘‘ I had to bolt, you see, last time, before I 
meant to go. ” 

“ Ah, you have not told me yet the why and wherefore of 
those sudden disappearances. Excuse my saying so, Josephs, 
but they were scarcely gentlemanly.” 

“ I know it,” said Josephs, sadly, “ but however carefully 
one plans a thing, it may take a wrong turning. The first 
time I was at the castle I meant to leave in a carriage and 
pair, waving my handkerchief, but it could not be done at the 
money.” 

‘‘ The colonel would have sent you to Silchester in his own 
trap.” 

“ Ah, I wanted a brougham. You see, I had been a little 
extravagant at the inn, and I could not summon up courage 
to leave the castle without tipping the servants all round.” 


WHEN A MAK^S SINGLE. 147 

‘‘ So you waited until you were penniless, and then stole 

awayr’ 

‘‘ Not quite penniless/^ said Josephs: I had three pounds 
left, but— 

He hesitated. 

“You see,’’ he blurted out, blushing at last, “ my old 
mother is dependent upon me, and I kept the three pounds 
for her.” 

Dick took his cigar from his mouth. 

“I am sorry to hear this, Josephs,” he said, “ because I 
meant to box your ears presently, and I don’t know that I can 
do it now. How about the sudden termination to the visit 
you honored the colonel with last Christmas?” 

“ I had to go,” said Josephs, “ because I read that Sir 
Clement Dow ton had returned to England. Besides, I was 
due at the shop.” 

“ But you had an elegant time while your money held out?” 

Josephs wiped a smile from his face. 

“ It was grand,” he said. “ I shall never know such days 
again.” 

“ I hope not, Josephs. Was there no streak of cloud in 
those halcyon days?” 

The barber sighed heavily. 

“ Ay, there was,” he said — “ hair-oil.’^ 

“ Explain yourself, my gentle hair-dresser.” 

“ Gentlemen,” said Josephs, “ don’t use hair-oil. I can’t 
live without it. That is my only stumbling-block to being a 
gentleman.” 

He put his fingers through his hair, and again Dick sniffed 
the odor of oil. 

“I had several bottles of it with me,” Josephs continued, 
“ but I dared not use it.” 

“ This is interesting,” said Dick. “ I should like to know 
now, from you who have tried both professions, whether you 
prefer the gentleman to the barber.” 

“I do and I don’t,” answered Josephs. “Hair-dressing 
suits me best as a business, but gentility for pleasure. A fort- 
night of the gentleman sets me up for the year. I should not 
like to be a gentleman all the year round.” 

“ The hair-oil is an insurmountable obstacle.” 

“Yes,” said the barber; “ besides, to be a gentleman is 
rather hard work.” 

“ I dare say it is,” said Dick, “ when you take a short cut 
to it. Wdlk I presume this interview is at an end. You may 
go.” 


148 WHEK A man’s single. 

He jerked his foot in the direction of the door, but Josephs 
hesitated. 

“ Colonel Abinger well?^^ asked the barber. 

‘‘ The door, Josephs,” replied Dick. 

“ And Miss Abinger?” 

Dick gave the barber a look that hurried him out of the 
room and down the stairs. Abinger’s mouth twitched every 
time he took the cigar out of it, until he started to his feet. 

“ I have forgotten that Angus and my father are together,” 
he murmured. ‘‘ I wonder,” he asked himself, as he returned 
to his own chambers, “ how the colonel will take this? Must 
he be told? I think so.” 

Colonel Abinger was told as soon as Rob had left, and it 
added so much fuel to his passion that it put the fire out. 

‘‘If the story gets abroad,” he said, with a shudder, “I 
shall never hold up my head again. ” 

“It is a safe secret,” Dick answered; “ the fellow would 
not dare to speak of it anywhere. He knows what that would 
mean for himself.” 

“ Angus knows of it. Was it like the chivalrous soul you 
make him to flout this matter before us?’ ’ 

“You are hard up for an argument against Angus, father. 
I made him promise to let me know if he ever came on the 
track of the impostor, and you saw how anxious he was to 
keep the discovery from you. He asked me at the door when 
he was going out not to mention it to either you or Mary.” 

“Confound him!” cried the colonel, testily; “but he is 
right about Mary; we need not speak of it to her. She never 
liked the fellow.” 

“That was fortunate,” said Dick, “but you did, father. 
You thought that Josephs was a gentleman, and you say that 
Angus is not. Perhaps you have made a mistake in both cases. ” 

‘‘I say nothing against Angus,” replied the colonel, “ ex- 
cept that I don’t want him to marry my daughter.” 

“ Oh, you and he got on well together, then?” 

“ He can talk. The man has improved.” 

“You did not talk about Mary?” asked Dick. 

“We never mentioned her; how could I, when he supposes 
her engaged to Dowton? I shall talk about him to her, 
though.” 

Two days afterward Dick asked his father if he had talked 
to Mary about Angus yet. 

“ No, Richard,” the old man admitted feebly, “ I have 
not. The fact is, she is looking so proud and stately just now 
that I feel nervous about broaching the subject.” 


WHEK A MAK^S SINGLE. 


149 


That is exactly how I feel/’ said Dick; ‘‘but Nell told 
me to-day that, despite her hauteur before us, Mary is wearing 
her heart away/’ 

The colonel’s fingers beat restlessly on the mantel-piece. 

“ I’m afraid she does care for Angus,” he said. 

“ As much as he cares for her, I believe, ” replied Dick. 
“Just think,” he added, bitterly, “that these two people 
love each other for the best that is in them — one of the rarest 
things in life — and are nevertheless to be kept apart. Look 
here.” 

Dick drew aside his blind, and pointed to a light cast on the 
opposite wall from a higher window. 

“ That is Angus’s light,” he said. “ On such a night as 
this, when he is not wanted at the Wirey you will see that 
light blazing into the morning. Watch that moving shadow; 
it is the reflection of his arm as he sits there writing, writing, 
writing, with nothing to write for, and only despair to face 
him when he stops. Is it not too bad?” 

“ They will forget each other in time,” said the colonel. 
“ Let Dowton have another chance. He is to be at the Lodge.” 

“ But if they don’t forget each other, if Dowton fails again, 
and Mary continues to eat her heart in silence, what then?” 

“We shall see.” 

“ Look here, father, I can not play this pitiful part before 
Angus forever. Let us make a bargain.’ Dowton gels a sec- 
ond chance; if he does not succeed, it is Angus’s t^arn. Do 
you promise me so much?” 

“I can not say,” replied the colonel, thoughtfully. “It 
may come to that.” 

Bob was as late in retiring to rest that night as Dick had 
predicted, but he wrote less than usual. He had something to 
think of as he paced his room, for, unlike her father and 
brother, he knew that when Mary was a romantic school-girl 
she had dressed the sham baronet, as a child may dress her 
doll, in the virtues of a hero. He shuddered to think of her 
humiliation should she ever hear the true story of Josephs — as 
she never did. Yet many a lady of high degree has given her 
heart to a baronet who was better fitted to be a barber. 


CHAPTER XVII. 

ROB PULLS HIMSELF TOGETHER. 

In a London fog the street-lamps are up and about runnmg 
maliciously at pedestrians. He is in love or writing a book 
who is struck by one without remonstrating. One night that 


150 


WHEK A MAK^S SIKGLE. 


autumn a fog crept through London a month before it was due, 
and Eob met a lamp-post the following afternoon on his way 
home from the Wire office. He passed on without a word, 
though he was not writing a book. Something had happened 
that day, and but for Mary Abinger Eob would have been 
wishing that his mother could see him now. 

The editor of the Wire had called him into a private room, 
in which many a young gentleman, who only wanted a chance 
to put the world to rights, has quaked, hat in hand, before 
now. It is the dusty sanctum from which Mr. Eowbotham 
wearily distributes glory or consternation, sometimes with 
niggardly hand and occasionally like an African explorer scat- 
tering largess among the natives. Mr. Eowbotham might be 
even a greater editor than he is if he was sure that it is quite 
the proper thing for so distinguished a man as himself to be- 
lieve in anything, and some people think that liis politics are 
to explain away to-day the position he took up yesterday. He 
seldom writes himself, and while directing the line to be 
adopted by his staff, he smokes a cigar, which he likes to probe 
with their pens. He is pale and thin, and has roving eyes, 
got from always being on the alert against aspirants. 

All the chairs in the editorial room, except Mr. Eowbotham’s 
own, had been converted, like the mantel-piece, into tem- 
porary book-cases. Eob tumbled the books off one (your In- 
quiry into the State of Ireland was among them, gentle 
reader) much as a coal-heaver topples his lo^ into a cellar, 
or like a housewife emptying her apron. 

“You suit me very well, Angus,’’ the editor said. “You 
have no lurking desire to write a book, have you?” 

“ No,” Eob answered; “ since I joined the press that am- 
bition seems to have gone from me.” 

“ Quite so,” said Mr. Eowbotham, his tone implying that 
Eob now left the court without a stain upon his character. 
The editor’s cigar went out, and he made a spill of a page 
from “ Sonnets of the Woods,” which had just come in for 
review. 

“As you know,” the editor continued, “ I have been look- 
ing about me for a leader writer for the last year. You have 
a way of keeping your head that I like, and your style is not 
so villainously bad. Are you prepared to join us?” 

“ I should think so,” said Eob. 

“ Very well. You will start with eight hundred pounds a 
year. Eicketts, as you may have heard, has half as much 
again as that, but he has been with us some time.” 

“ All right,” said Eob, calmly, though liis chest was swell- 


WHEK A MAN'S SINGLE. 


151 


ing. He used to receive an order for a sack of shavings in the 
same tone. 

‘‘ You expected this, I dare say?’^ asked the editor. 

Scarcely/’ said Eob. I thought you would offer the 
appointment to Marriott; he is a much, cleverer man than I 
am.” 

‘‘Yes/’ assented Mr. Eowbotham, more readily than Eob 
thought necessary. “ I have had Marriott in my eye for some 
time, but I rather think Marriott is a genius, and so he would 
not do for us.” 

“You never had that suspicion of me?” asked Eob, a little 
blankly. 

“ Never,” said the editor, frankly. “ I saw from the first 
that you were a man to be trusted. Moderate Eadicalism is 
our policy, and not even Eicketts can advocate moderation so 
vehemently as you do. You can fight for it with a fiail. By 
the way, you are Scotch, I think?” 

“Yes,” said Eob. 

“ I only asked,” the editor explained, “ because of the 
shall and the will difficulty. Have you got over that yet?” 

“No,” Eob said, sadly, “ arid never will.” 

“ I shall warn the proof-readers to be on the alert,” Mr. 
Eowbotham said, laughing, though Eob did not see what at. 
“ Dine with me at the Garrick on Wednesday week, will you?” 

Eob nodded, and was retiring, when the editor called after 
him: 

“You are not a married man, Angus?” 

“No,” said Eob, with a sickly smile. 

“Ah, you should marry,” recommended Mr. Eowbotham, 
who is a bachelor. “You would be worth another two hun- 
dred a year to us then. I wish I could find the time to do it 
myself.” 

Eob left the office a made man, but looking as if it all had 
happened some time ago. There were men shivering in Fleet 
Street as he passed down it who had come to London on the 
same day as himself, every one with a tragic story to tell now, 
and some already seeking the double death that is called 
drowning care. Shadows of university graduates passed him 
in the fog who would have been glad to carry his bag. That 
night a sandwich-board man, who had once had a thousand a 
year, crept into the Thames. Yet Eob bored his way home, 
feeling that it was all in vain. 

He stopped at Abinger’s door to tell him what had hap- 
pened, but the chambers were locked. More like a man who 
had lost eight hundred pounds a year than one who had just 


152 


WHEN A MAN^S SINGLE. 


been offered it, he mounted to his own rooms, hardly noticing 
that the door was now ajar. The blackness of night was in 
the sitting-room, and a smell of burning leather. 

“ Another pair of slippers gone,’’ said a voice from the fire- 
place. It was Dick; and if he had not jumped out of one of 
the slippers he would have been on fire himself. Long experi- 
ence had told him the exact moment to jump. 

“ I tried your door,” Eob said. “ I have news for you.” 

‘‘ Weli,” said Dick, ‘‘ I forced my way in here because I 
have something to tell you, and resolved not to miss you. 
Who speaks first? My news is bad — at least for me.” 

‘‘ Mine is good,” said Eob; “ we had better finish up with 
it” 

“ Ah,” Dick replied, “ but when you .hear mine you may 
not care to tell me yours.” 

Dick spoke first, however, and ever afterward was glad that 
he had done so. 

“ Look here, Angus,” he said, bluntly, “ I don’t know 
that Mary is engaged to Dowton. ” 

Eob stood up and sat down again. 

“ Nothing is to be gained by' talking in that way,” he said, 
shortly. “ She was engaged to him six weeks ago.” 

“No,” said Dick, “ s& was not; though, for all I know, 
she may be now. ” 

Then Dick told his tale under the fire of Eob’s eyes. 
When it was ended Eob rose from his chair, and stared silently 
for several minutes at a vase on the mantel-piece. Dick con- 
tinued talking, but Eob did not hear a word. 

“ I can’t sit here, Abinger,” he said; “ there is not room 
to think. I shall be back presently.” 

He was gone into the fog the next moment. “ At it again,” 
muttered the porter, as Eob swung past, and was lost ten 
paces off. He was back in an hour, walking more slowly. 

“ \Vhen the colonel writes to you,” he said, as he walked 
into his room, “ does he make any mention of Dowton?” 

“He never writes,” Dick answered; “he only telegraphs 
me now and again, when a messenger from the Lodge happens 
to be in Thrums.” 

“ Miss Abinger writes?” 

“ Yes. I know from her that Dowton is still there, but 
that is all.” 

“ He would not have remained so long,” said Eob, “ unless 
— unless — ” 

“I don’t know,” Dick answered. “ You see, it would all 
depend on Mary, She had a soft heart for Dowton the day she 


WEEK A MAK^S SIKGLE. 


153 


refused him, but I am not sure how she would take his ap- 
pearance on the scene again. If she resented it, I don’t think 
the boldest baronet that breathes would venture to propose to 
Mary in her shell.” 

“ The colonel might press her?” 

“ Hardly, I think, to marry a man she does not care for. 
'No; you do him an injustice. What my father would like to 
have is the power to compel her to care for Dowton. No 
doubt he would exercise that if it were his.” 

‘‘ Miss Abinger says nothing — sends no messages — I mean, 
does she ever mention me when she writes?” 

‘‘ Never a word,” said Dick. ‘‘ Don’t look pale, man; it is 
a good sign. Women go by contraries, they say. Besides, 
Mary is not like Mohammed. If the mountain won’t go to 
her, she will never come to the mountain.” 

Rob started, and looked at his hat. 

“ You can’t walk to Glen Quharity Lodge to-night,” said 
Dick, following Rob’s eyes. 

‘‘ Do you mean that I should go at all?” 

“ Why — well, you see, it is this awkward want of an income 
that spoils everything. Now, if you could persuade Row- 
botham to give you a thousand a year, that might have its in- 
fluence on my father.” 

I told you,” exclaimed Rob; no, of course I did not. I 
joined the staff of the Wire to-day at eight hundred pounds.” 

“ Your hand, young man,” said Dick, very nearly becom- 
ing excited. “ Then that is all right. On the press every one 
with a good income can add two hundred a year to it. It is 
only those who need the two hundred that can not get it.” 

You think I should go north?” said Rob, with the whistle 
of the train already in his ears. 

‘‘ Ah, it is not my affair,” answered Dick; “ I have done 
my duty. I promised to give Dowton a fair chance, and he 
has had it. I don’t know what use he has made of it, re- 
member. You have overlooked my share in this business, 
and I retire now.” 

‘‘You are against me still, Abinger.” 

“No, Angus, on my word I am not. You are as good a 
man as Dowton, and if Mary tliinks you better — ” 

Dick shrugged his shoulders to signify that he had freed 
them of a load of prejudice. 

“ But does she?” said Rob. 

“You will have to ask herself,” replied Dick. 

“Yes; but when?” 

“ She will probably be up in town next season.” 


154 


WHEN A man’s single. 


Next season!” exclaimed Rob; ‘‘as well say next cent- 
ury.” 

“ Well, if that is too long to wait, suppose you come to 
Dome Castle with me at Christmas?” 

Rob pushed the invitation from him contemptuously. 

“ There is no reason,” he said, looking at Dick defiantly, 
“ why I should not go north to-night.” 

“ It would be a little hurried, would it not?” Dick said to 
his pipe. 

“No,” Rob answered, with a happy inspiration. “ I 
meant to go to Thrums just now, for a few days at any rate. 
Rowbotham does not need me until Friday.” 

Rob looked up and saw Dick^s mouth twitching. He tried 
to stare Mary’s brother out of countenance, but could not doit. 

Night probably came on that Tuesday as usual, for Nature 
is as much as man a slave to habit, but it was not required to 
darken London. If all the clocks and watches had broken 
their main-springs, no one could have told whether it was at 
noon or midnight that Rob left for Scotland. It would have 
been equally impossible to say from his face Whether he was 
off to a marriage or a funeral. He did not know himself. 

“ This human nature is a curious thing,” thought Dick, as 
he returned to his rooms. “ Here are two of us in misery: 
the one because he fears he is not going to be married, and 
the other because he knows he is. ” 

He stretched himself out on two chairs. 

“ Neither of us, of course, is really miserable. Angus is 
not, for he is in love; and I am not, for — ” He paused and 
looked at his pipe. 

“ No, I am not miserable; how could a man be miserable 
who has two chairs to lie upon, and a tobacco-jar at his elbow? 
I fancy, though, that I am just saved from misery by lack of 
sentiment. 

“ Curious to remember that I was once sentimental with 
the best of them. This is the Richard who sat up all night 
writing poems to Nell’s eyebrows. Ah, poor Nell! 

“ I wonder is it my fault that my passion burned itself out 
in one little crackle? With most men, if the books tell true, 
the first fire only goes out after the second is kindled; but I 
seem to have no more sticks to light. 

“ I am going to be married, though I would much rather 
remain single. My wife will be the only girl I ever loved, and 
I like her still more than any other girl I know. Though I 
shuddered just now when I thought of matrimony, there can 
be little doubt that we shall get on very well together. 


WHEK A MAK’S single. 


155 


I should have preferred her to prove as fickle as myself; 
but how true she has remained to me! Not to me, for it is 
not the real Dick Abinger she cares for, and so I donH know 
that Nell’s love is of the kind to make a man conceited. Is 
marriage a rash experiment when the woman loves the man 
for qualities he does not possess, and has not discovered in 
years of constant intercourse the little that is really lovable in 
him? Whatever I say to Nell is taken to mean the exact re- 
verse of what I do mean; she reads my writings upside down, 
as one might say; she cries if I speak to her of anything more 
serious than flowers and waltzes, but she thinks me divine 
when I treat her like an infant. 

‘‘Is it weakness or strength that has kept me what the 
world would call true to Nell? Is a man necessarily a villain 
because love dies out of his heart, or has his reason some right 
to think the affair over and show him where he stands? 

“ Yes, Nell, after all, gets the worst of the bargain. She 
will have for a husband a man who is evidently incapable of 
lasting affection for anybody. That, I suppose, means that I 
find myself the only really interesting person I know. Yet, I 
think, Richard, you would at times rather be somebody else — 
anybody almost would do. 

“ It is a little humiliating to remember that I have been ly- 
ing to Angus for the last month or two — I, who always 
thought I had such a noble admiration for the truth. I did it 
very easily too; so I suppose there can be no doubt that I 
really am a very poor sort of creature. I wonder if it was for 
Mary’s sake I lied, or merely because it would have been too 
troublesome to speak the truth? Except by tits and starts, I 
have ceased apparently to be interested in anything. The only 
thing nowadays that rouses my indignation is the attempt on 
any one’s part to draw me into an argument on any subject 
under the sun. Here is this Irish question; I can pump up 
an article in three paragraphs on it, but I don’t really seem to 
care whether it is ever settled or not. Should we have a re- 
public? I don’t mind; it is all the same to me; but don’t 
give me the casting vote. Is Gladstone a god? Is Gladstone 
the devil? They say he is one or the other, and I am content 
to let them fight it out. How long it is since I gave a thought 
to religion? What am I? There are men who come into this 
room and announce that they are agnostics, as if that were a 
new profession. Am I an agnostic? I think not; and if I 
was I would keep it to myself. My soul does not trouble me 
at all, except for five minutes or so now and again. On the 


156 


WHEK A man’s single. 


whole, I seem to be indifferent as to whether I have one, or 
what is to become of it.’’ 

Dick rose and. paced the room, until his face gave the lie to 
everything he h^ told himself. His lips quivered and his 
whole body shook. He stood in an agony against the mantel- 
piece, with his head in his hands, and emotions had possession 
of him compared with which the emotions of any other person 
described in this book were but children’s fancies. By and by 
he became, calm, and began to undress. Suddenly he remem- 
bered something. He rummaged for his keys in the pocket 
of the coat he had cast off, and, opening his desk, wrote on a 
slip of paper that he took from it Scalping Knife, Man 
Frightened to Get Married (humorous)!” 

“ My God!” he groaned, “ I would write an article. I think, 
on my mother’s coffin.” 


CHAPTEK XVIII. 

THE AUDACITY OF BOB ANGUS. 

Colonel Abingeb had allowed the other sportsmen to 
wander away from him, and now lay on his back on Ben-Shee, 
occasionally raking the glen of Quharity through a field-glass. 
It was a purple world he saw under a sky of gray and blue; 
with a white thread that was the dusty road twisting round a 
heavy sweep of mountain-side, and a broken thread of silver 
that was the Quharity straggling back and forward in the 
valley like a stream reluctant to be gone. To the naked eye 
they were bare black peaks that overlooked the glen from every 
side but the south. It was not the mountains, however, but 
the road, that interested the colonel. By and by he was sit- 
ting up frowning, for this is what he saw. 

From the clump of trees to the north that keeps Glen Qu- 
harity Lodge warm in winter, a man and a lady emerged on 
horseback. They had not advanced a hundred yards, when 
the male rider turned back as if for something he had forgot- 
ten. The lady rode forward alone. 

A pedestrian came into sight about the same time, a mile 
to the south of the colonel. The field-glass lost him a dozen 
times; but he was approaching rapidly, and he and the rider 
must soon meet. 

The nearest habitation to Colonel Abinger was the school- 
house, which was some four hundred yards distant. It stands 
on the other side of the white road, and is approached by a 
straight path down which heavy carts can jolt in the summer 
months. Every time the old dominie goes up and down this 


WSTIK A MAK'S single. 


157 


path his boots take part of it along with them. There is a 
stone in his house, close to the door, which is chipped and 
scarred, owing to his habit of kicking it to get the mud off his 
boots before he goes inside. The dominie was at present sit- 
ting listlessly on the dike that accompanies this path to the 
high-road. 

The colonel was taking no interest in the pedestrian as yet, 
but he sighed as he watched the lady ride slowly forward. 
Where the road had broken through a bump in the valley, her 
lithe form in green stood out sharply as a silhouette against 
the high ragged bank of white earth. The colonel had recog- 
nized his daughter, and his face w^as troubled. 

During all the time they had been at the Lodge he had never 
mentioned Rob Angus^s name to Mary, chiefly because she had 
not given him a chance to lose his temper. She had been 
more demonstrative in her love for her father than of old, and 
had anticipated his wants in a way that gratifled him at the 
moment, but disturbed him afterward. In his presence she 
seemed quite gayly happy; but he had noticed that she liked 
to slip away on to the hill-side by herself, and sit there alone 
for hours at a time. Sir Clement Dowton was still at the 
Lodge, but the colonel was despondent. He knew very well 
that, without his consent, Mary would never give her hand to 
any man; but he was equally aware that there his power 
ended. Where she got her notions he did not know; but since 
she became his housekeeper she had impressed the colonel 
curiously. He was always flnding himself taking for granted 
her purity to be something so flne that it behooved him to be 
careful. Mary affected other people in the same way. They 
came to know that she was a very rare person, and so in her 
company they became almost fine persons themselves. Thus 
the natural goodness of mankind asserted itself. Of late the 
colonel had felt Mary -s presence more than ever; he believed 
in her so much (often to his annoyance) that she was a relig- 
ion to him. 

While Colonel Abinger sat in the heather, perturbed in 
mind, and trying to persuade himself that it' was Mary’s fault, 
the pedestrian drew near rapidly. Evidently he and the rider 
would meet near the school-house, and before the male rider, 
who had again emerged from the clump of trees, could make 
up on his companion. 

The dominie, who did not have such a slice of the outer 
world as this every day, came to the end of his path to have a 
look at the persons who were nearing him from opposite direc- 
tions. He saw that the pedestrians wore an elegant silk hat 


158 


WHEK A man's single. 


and black coat, such as were not to be got in these parts. 
Only the delve with which he walked suggested a man from 
Thrums. 

The pedestrian made a remark about the weather as he hur- 
ried past the dominie. He was now so near the colonel that 
his face could be distinctly seen through the field-glass. The 
colonel winced, and turned white and red. Then the field- 
glass jumped quickly to the horse-woman. The pedestrian 
started as he came suddenly in sight of her, and at the same 
moment her face lighted up with joy. The colonel saw it, and 
felt a pain at his heart. The glass shook in his hand, thus 
bringing the dominie accidentally into view. 

The dominie was now worth watching. No sooner had the 
pedestrian passed him than the old man crouched so as not to 
seem noticeable, and ran after him. When he was within ten 
yards of his quarry he came to rest, and the field-glass told 
that he was gaping. Then the dominie turned round and hur- 
ried back to the school -house, muttering as he ran : 

“ It’s Eob Angus come home in a lum hat, and that's one 
o' the leddies frae the Lodge. I maun awa’ to Thrums wi' this. 
Eob Angus, Eobbie Angus, michty, what a toon there'll be 
aboot this!” 

Eob walked up to Mary Abinger, feeling that to bid her 
good-afternoon was like saying “ Thank you ” in a church 
when the organ stops. He felt himself a saw-miller again. 

The finest thing in the world is that a woman can pass 
through anything and remain pure. Mary had never been put 
to the test, but she could have stood it. Her soul spoke in 
her face, and as Eob looked at her the sound of his own voice 
seemed a profanation. Yet Mary was not all soul. She under- 
stood, for instance, why Eob stammered so much as he took 
her hand, and she was glad that she had on her green habit 
instead of the black one. 

Sir Clement Dowton rode forward smartly to make up on 
Miss Abinger, and saw her a hundred yards before him from 
the top of a bump which the road climbs. She was leaning 
forward in her saddle, talking to a man whom he recognized at 
once. The baronet's first thought was to ride on, but he drew 
rein. 

“ I have had my chance and failed,” he said to himself, 
grimly. “Why should not he have his?'’ 

With a last look at the woman he loved. Sir Clement turned 
his horse, and so rode out of Mary Abinger’s life. She had 
not even seen him. 

“ Papa has been out shooting,” she said to Eob, who was 


WHEIT A man’s single. 169 

tiying to begin, ‘‘ and I am on my way to meet him. Sir 
Clement Dowton is with me.’^ 

She turned her head to look for the baronet, and Rob, who 
had been aimlessly putting his fingers through her horsey’s 
mane, started at the mention of Sir Clement’s name. 

“ Miss Abinger,” he said, ‘‘ 1 have come here to ask you 
one question. I have no right to put it, but Sir Clement, 
he — ” 

If you want to see him,” said Mary, you have just come 
in time. I believe he is starting for a tour of the world in a 
week or so.” 

Rob drew a heavy breath, and from that moment he liked 
Dowton. But he had himself to think of at present. He re- 
membered that he had another question to ask Miss Abinger. 

“ It is a very long time since I saw you,’^ he said. 

“Yes,” said Mary, sitting straight in her saddle, “you 
never came to the house-boat those last weeks. I suppose you 
were too busy.” 

“ That was not what kept me away,” Rob said. “ You 
know it was not.” 

Mary looked behind her again. 

“ There was nothing else,” she said; “ I can not under- 
stand what is detaining Sir Clement.” 

“ I thought — Rob began. 

“You should not,” said Mary, looking at the school-house. 

“But your brother — ” Rob was raying, when he paused, 
not wanting to incriminate Dick. 

“Yes, I know,” said Mary, whose intellect was very clear 
to-day. She knew why Rob stopped short, and there was a 
soft look in her eyes as they were turned upon him. 

“ Your brother advised me to come north,” Rob said, but 
Mary did not answer. 

“ I would not have done so,” he continued, “if I had 
known that you knew why I stayed away from the house-boat.” 

“ I think I must ride on,” Mary said. 

“No,” said Rob, in a voice that put it out of the question. 
So Mary must have thought, for she remained there. “ You 
thought it better,” he went on, huskily, “ that, whatever the 
cause, I should not see you again.” 

Mary was bending her riding- whip into a bow. 

“ Did you not?” cried Rob, a little fiercely. 

Mary shook her head. 

“ Then why did you do it?” he said. 

“ I didn’t do anything,” said Mary. 

“ In all London,” said Rob, speaking at a venture, “ there 


160 WHEH A MAK^S SINGLE. 

has not been one person for the last two months so miserable 
as myself.” 

Mary’s eyes wandered from Rob’s face far over the heather. 
There might be tears in her eyes at any moment. The colonel 
was looking. 

“ That stream/’ said Rob, with a mighty effort,-^ pointing 
to the distant Whunny, “ twists round the hill on which we 
are now standing, and runs through Thrums. It turns the 
wheel of a saw-mill there, and in that saw-mill I was born, and 
worked with my father for the great part of my life.” 

“ I have seen it,” said Mary, with her head turned away. 

I have been in it.” 

‘‘ It was on the other side of the hill that my sister’s child 
was found dead. Had she lived I might never have seen you.” 

‘‘ One of the gamekeepers,” said Mary, ‘‘ showed me the 
place where you found her with her foot in the water.” 

“ I have driven a cart through this glen a hundred times,” 
continued Rob, doggedly. ‘‘ You see that wooden shed at the 
school-house; it was my father and I who put it up. It seems 
but yesterday since I carted the boards from Thrums.” 

“ The dear boards,” murmured Mary. 

“ Many a day my mother has walked from the saw-mill 
into this glen with my dinner in a basket.” 

Good mother,” said Mary. 

Now,” said Rob, ‘‘ now, when I come back here and see 
you, I remember what I am. I have lived for you from the 
moment I saw you, but however hard I might toil for you, 
there must always be a difference between us.” 

He was standing on the high bank, and their faces were 
very close. Mary shuddered. 

I only frighten you,” cried Rob. 

Mary raised her head, and, though her face was wet, she 
smiled. Her hand went out to him, but she noticed it and 
drew it back. Rob saw it too, but did not seek to take it. 
They were looking at each other bravely. His eyes proposed 
to her, while he could not say a word, and hers accepted him. 
On the hills men were shooting birds. 

Rob knew that Mary loved him. An awe fell upon him. 
“ What am I?” he cried, and Mary put her hand in his. 

“ Don’t, dear,” she said, as his face sunk on it; and he 
raised his head and could not speak. 

The colonel sighed, and his cheeks were red. His head 
sunk upon his hands. He was young again and walking down 
an endless lane of green with a maiden by his side, and her 
hand was in his. They sat down by the side of a running 


WHEN A MAN^S SINGLE. 


161 


stream. Her fair head lay on his shoulder, and she was his 
wife. The coloneTs lips moved as if he was saying to himself 
words of love, and his arms went out to her who had been dead 
this many a year, and a tear, perhaps the last he ever shed, 
ran down his cheek. 

“ I should not,'^ Mary said at last, have let you talk to 
me like this.^’ 

Eob looked up with sudden misgiving. 

‘‘ Why not?” he cried. 

‘‘ Papa,” she said, ‘‘ will never consent, and I — I knew 
that; I have known it all along.” 

‘‘ I am not going to give you up now,” Rob said, passion- 
ately, and he looked as if he would run away with her at that 
moment. 

I had no right to listen to you,” said Mary. 1 did not 
mean to do so, but I — I ” — her voice sunk into a whisper — 
“ I wanted to know — ” 

To know that I loved you? Ah, you have knoTO all 
along.” 

‘‘Yes,” said Mary; “ but I wanted — I wanted to hear you 
say so yourself.” 

Rob’s arms went over her like a hoop. 

“Rob, dear,” she whispered, “you must go away, and 
never see me any more.” 

“ I won’t,” cried Rob; “ you are to be my wife. He shall 
not part ns.” 

“ It can never be,” said Mary. 

“ I shall see him — I shall compel him to consent.” 

Mary shook her head. 

“ You don’t want to marry me,” Rob said, fiercely, draw- 
ing back from her. “ You do not care for me. What made 
you say you did?” 

“ I shall have to go back now,” Mary said, and the softness 
of her voice contrasted strangely with the passion in his. 

“ I shall go with you,” Rob answered, “ and see your 
father.” 

“No, no,” said Mary; “ we must say good-bye here, now.” 

Rob turned on her with all the dourness of the Anguses in 
him. 

“ Good-bye,” he said, and left her. Mary put her hand to 
her heart, but he was already turning back. 

“ Oh,” she cried, “ do you not see that it is so much harder 
to me than to you?” 

“ Mary, my beloved!” Rob cried. She swayed in her saddle. 


16S WHEN A MAN^S SINGLE. 

and if lie had not been there to catch her she would have fallen 
to the ground. 

Rob heard a footstep at his side, and, looking up, saw 
Colonel Abinger. The old man’s face was white, but there 
was a soft look in his eye, and he stooped to take Mary to his 
breast. 

‘‘No,” Rob said, with his teeth close, “ you can’t have her. 
She’s mine.” 

“ Yes,” the colonel said, sadly; “ she’s yours.” 


CHAPTER XIX. 

THE VEEDICT OF THRUMS. 

On a mild Saturday evening in the following May, Sandersy 
Riach, telegraph-boy, emerged from the Thrums post-ofiBce, 
and holding his head high, strutted off toward the Tenements. 
He had on his uniform, and several other boys flung gutters 
at it, to show that they were as good as he was. 

“ Wha’s deid, Sandersy?” housewives flung open their win- 
dows to ask. 

“ It’s no’ a death,” Sandersy replied. “ Na, na, far frae 
that. I daurna tell ye what it is, because it’s agin the regala- 
tions, but it’ll cause a michty wy doin’ in Thrums this nicht.” 

“ Juist whisper what it’s aboot, Sandersy, my laddie.” 

“ It canna be done, Easie; na, na. But them ’at wants to 
hear the noos, follow me to Tammas Haggart’s.” 

Off Sandersy went, with some women and a dozen children 
at his heels, but he did not And Tammas in. 

“ I winnahae’t lyin’ aboot here,” Chirsty, the wife of Tam- 
mas, said, eying the telegram as something that might go off 
at any moment; “ye’ll better takMt on to ’imsel’. He's 
takkin’ a dander through the buryin’-ground wi’ Snecky 
Hobart.” 

Sandersy marched through the east town -end at the head of 
his following, and climbed the steep straight brae that leads 
to the cemetery. There he came upon the stone-breaker and 
the bellman strolling from grave to grave. Silva McQuhatty 
and Sam’l Todd were also in the burying-ground for pleasure, 
and they hobbled toward Tammas when they saw the tele- 
gram in his hand. 

“ ‘ Thomas Haggart,’ the stone-breaker murmured, read- 
ing out his own name on the envelope, ‘ Tenements, 
Thrums.’ ” Then he stared thoughtfully at liis neighbors to 
see whether that could be looked upon as news. It was his 
first telegram. 


WHEN A man’s single. 


163 


Ay, ay, deary me,” said Silva, mournfully. 

“ She’s no very expliceet, do ye think?” asked Sam’l Todd. 

Snecky Hobart, however, as an official himself, had a gen- 
eral notion of how affairs of state are conducted. 

“ Eip her open, Tammas,” he suggested. “ That’s but 
the shell, I’m thinkin’.” 

‘‘ Hoes she open?” asked Tammas, with a grin. 

He opened the telegram gingerly, and sat down on a pros- 
trate tombstone to consider it. Snecky’s fingers tingled to 
get at it. 

It begins in the same wy,” the stone-breaker said, delib- 
erately; “ ‘ Thomas Haggart, Tenements, Thrums.’ ” 

“ Ay, ay, deary me,” repeated Silva. 

“ That means it’s to you,” Snecky said to Tammas. 

“ Next,” continued Tammas, comes ^ Elizabeth Haggart, 
101 Lower Fish Street, Whitechapel, London.’-” 

‘‘ She’s a’ names thegither,” muttered Sam’l Todd, in a 
tone of remonstrance. 

She’s a’ richt,” said Snecky, nodding to Tammas to pro- 
ceed. Elizabeth Haggart — that’s wha the telegram comes 
frae.” 

Ay, ay,” said the stone-breaker, doubtfully, but I ken 
no Elizabeth Haggart.” 

“ Hoots,” said Snecky; it’s your ain dochter ’Lisbeth.” 

‘‘Keeps us a’,” said Tammas, “ so it is. I didna un’er- 
stan’ at first; ye see we aye called her Leeby. Ay, an’ that’s 
whaur she bides in London too.” 

“ Lads, lads,” said Silva, “ an’ is Leeby gone? Ay, ay, 
we all fade as a leaf; so we do.” 

“ What!” cried Tammas, his hand beginning to shake. 

“Havers,” said Snecky, “ye hinna come to the telegram 
proper yet, Tammas. What mair does it say?” 

The stone-breaker conned over the words, and by and by 
his face wrinkled with excitement. He puffed his cheeks, and 
then let the air rush through his mouth like an escape of gas. 

“ It’s Rob Angus/’ he blurted out. 

“ Man, man,” said Silva, “ an’ him lookit sae strong an’ 
snod when he was here i’ the back-end o’ last year.” 

“ He’s no deid,” cried Tammas, “ he’s mairit. Listen, 
lads, ‘ The thing is true Rob Angus has married the colonel’s 
daughter at a castle Rob Angus has married the colonel.’ ” 

“ Losh me!” said Sam’l, “ I never believed he would man- 
age’!.” 

“Ay^but she reads queer,” said Tammas. “First sbe 


164 WHEN A man’s single. 

says Rob’s mairit the dochter, an’ neist ’at he’s mairit the 
colonel.” 

‘‘ Twa o’ them!” cried Silva, who was now in a state to be- 
lieve anything. 

Snecky seized the telegram, and thought it over, 
i see what Leeby’s done,” he said, admiringly. Ye’re 
restreected to twenty words in a telegram, an’ Leeby found 
she had said a’ she had to say in fourteen words, so she’s 
repeated hersel’ to get her full shillin’s worth.” 

“ Ye’ve hit it, Snecky,” said Tanimas. It’s Juist what 
Leeby would do. She was aye a michty thrifty, shrewd 
crittur. ” 

A shillin’s an awfu’ siller to fling awa’, though,” said 
Sam’l. 

‘‘It’s weel spent in this case,” retorted Tammas, sticking 
up for his own; “ there hasna been sic a startler in Thrums 
since the English kirk-steeple fell.” 

“ Ye can see Angus’s saw-mill frae here,” exclaimed Silva, 
implying that this made the affair more wonderful than ever. 

“So ye can,” said Snecky, gazing at it as if it were some 
curiosity that had been introduced into Thrums in the night- 
time. 

“ To think,” muttered Tammas, “ ’at the saw-miller doon 
there should be mairit in a castle. It’s beyond all. Oh, it’s 
beyond, it’s beyond.” 

“ Sal, though,” said Sam’l, suspiciously, “ I wud like a 
sicht o’ the castle. I mind o’ readin’ in a hooky ’at every 
Englishman’s hoose is his castle, so I’m thinkin’ castle’s but 
a name in the sooth for an ord’nar’ hoose.” 

“Weel a wat, ye never can trust thae foreigners,” said 
Silva; “ it’s weel beknown ’at English is an awful pertentious 
langitch too. They slither ower their words in a hurried w'y 
’at I canna say I like; no, I canna say I like it.” 

“ Will Leeby hae seen the castle?” asked Sam’l. 

“ Na,” said Tammas; “ it’s a lang wy frae London; she’ll 
juist hae heard o’ the mairitch.” 

“ It’ll hae made a commotion in London, I dinna doot,” 
said Snecky, “ but, lads, it proves as the colonel-man stuck to 
Rob.” 

“ Ay, I hardly expected it.” 

“ Ay, ay, Snecky, ye’re richt. Rob’ll hae manage’ t him. 
Weel, I will say this for Rob Angus, he was a crittur ’at was 
terrible fond o’ gettin’ his ain wy.” 

“ The leddy had smoothed the thing ower wi’ her father,” 
said Tammas, who was notorious for his knowledge of women; 


WHEN- A man’s single. 


165 


ay, an’ there was a hrither, ye mind? Ane o’ the servants 
up at the Lodge said to Kitty Webster ’at they were to be mairit 
the same day, so I’ve nae doot they were.” 

‘‘ Ay,” said Sam’l, pricking up his ears, ‘‘ an’ wha was the 
hrither gettin’?” 

“ Well, it was juist gossip, ye un’erstan’. But I heard 
tell ’at the leddy had a tremendous tocher, an’ ’at she was 
called Meredith.” 

“Meredith!” exclaimed Silva McQuhatty, “what queer 
names some o’ thae English fowk has; ay, I prefer the ord’- 
nar’ names mysel’.” 

“ I wonder,” said Snecky, looking curiously at the others, 
“ what Rob has in the wy o’ wages?” 

“ That’s been discuss’t in every hoose in Thrums,” said 
Sam’l, “ but there’s no doubt it’s high, for it’s a salary; ay, 
it’s no’ wages.” 

“I dinna ken what Rob has,” Silva said, “but some o’ 
thae writers makes awfu’ sums. There’s the yeditor o’ the 
Tilliedrum Weekly Herald, noo. I canna tell his income, but 
I have it frae Lite Deuchars, wha kens, at he pays twa-an- 
twenty pound o’ rent for’s hoose.” 

“ Ay, but Rob’s no a yeditor,” said Sam’l. 

“Ye’re far below the mark wi’ Rob’s salary,” said Tarn- 
mas. “ My ain opeenion is ’at he has a great hoose in London 
by this time, wi’ twa or three servants, an’ a lad in knicker- 
bockers to stand ahent his chair and reach ower him to cut 
the roast beef.” 

“ It may be so,” said Snecky, who had heard of such 
things, “ but if it is it’ll irritate Rob michty no’ to get cuttin’ 
the roast ’imseT. Thae Angusses aye like’t to do a’thing for 
themsel’s.” 

“ There’s the poseetion to think o’,” said Tammas. 

“ Thrums’ll be a busy toon this nicht,” said Sam’l, “ when 
it hears the noos. Ay, I maun awa’ an’ tell the wife.” 

Having said this, Sam’l sat down on the tombstone. 

“ It’ll send mair laddies on to the papers oot o’ Thrums,” 
said Tammas. “ There’s three awa’ to the printin’ trade 
since Rob was here, an’ Susie Byars is to send little Joey to 
the business as sune as he’s auld eneuch.” 

“ Joey’ll do weel in the noospaper line,” said Silva; “ he 
writes a better han’ than Rob Angus already.” 

“ Weel, weel, that’s the main thing, lads.” 

Sam’l moved off slowly to take the news into the east town- 
end. i 

“ It’s to Rob’s creedit,” said Tammas to the two men re- 


166 


WHEN A man’ 51 55INGLE. 


maining, ‘‘ ’at he wasna at all prood when he came back. Ay, 
he called on me very frank like, as ye’ll mind, an’ I wasna in, 
BO Chirsty dusts a chair for ’im, and comes to look for me. 
Lads, I was fair ashamed to see ’at in her fluster she’d gien 
him a common chair, when there was hair-bottomed anes in 
the other room. Ye may be sure I sent her for a better chair, 
an’ got him to change, though he was sort o’ mad like at hav- 
in’ to shift. That was his ind’pendence again.” 

I was aye callin’ him Eob,” said Snecky, forgettin’ 
what a grand man he was noo, an’, of coorse, I corrected my- 
sel’ and said Mr. Angus. Weel, when I’d dune that mebbe 
a dozen times he was fair stampin’s feet wi’ rage, as ye micht 
say. Ay, there was a want o’ patience aboot Eob Angus.” 

‘‘He slippit a gold sovereign into my hand,” said Silva, 
“ but losh, he wudna lat me thank ’im. ‘ Hold yer tongue,’ 
he says, or words to that eflec’, when I insistit on’t.” 

At the foot of the burying-ground road Sam’l Todd could 
be seen laying it on about Eob to a little crowd of men and 
women. Snecky looked at them till he could look no longer. 

“ I maun awa’ wi’ the noos to the wast toon-end,” he said; 
and by and by he went, climbing the dike for a short cut. 

“ Weel, weel, Eob Angus is mairit,” said Silva to Tammas. 

“ So he is, Silva,” said the stone-breaker. 

“ It’s an experiment,” said Silva. 

“Ye may say so, but Eob was aye venturesome.” 

“ Ye saw the leddy, Tammas?” 

“ Ay, man, I did mair than that. She spoke to me, an’ 
speired a lot aboot the wy Eob took on when little Davy was 
found deid. He was fond o’ his fowk, Eob, michty fond.” 

“ What was your opeenion o’ her then, Tammas?” 

“ Weel, Silva, to tell the truth, I was oncommon favorably 
impressed. She shook hands wi’ me, man, an’ she had sic a 
salt voice an’ sic a bonny face I was a kind o’ carried awa’ ; 
yes, I was so.” 

“ Ay, ye say that, Tammas. Weel, I think I’ll be movin’. 
They’ll be keen to hear aboot this in the square.” 

“ I said to her,” continued Tammas, peering through his 
half-closed eyes at Silva, “ ’at Eob was a lucky crittur to get 
sic a bonny wife.” 

“ Ye did!” cried Silva. “ An’ hoo did she tak’ that?” 

“ Ou,” said Tammas, complacently, “ she took it weel.” 

“ I wonder,” said Silva, now a dozen yards away, “ ’at Eob 
never sent ony o’ the papers he writes to Thrums juist to lat’s 
see them.” 

“ He sent a heap,” said Tammas, “ to the, minister, mean- 


WHEN A KAN 8 SINGLE. 


167 


in’ them to be passed roond, but Mr. Disbar t didna juist think 
they were quite the thing, ye un’erstan’, so he keeps them 
lockit up in a press.” 

They say in the toon,” said Silva, ‘‘ ’at Eob would never 
hae got on sae weel if Mr. Dishart hadna helpit him. Do you 
think there’s onything in that?” 

Tam mas was sunk in reverie, and Silva at last departed. 
He was out of sight by the time the stone-breaker came to. 

“ I spoke to the minister aboot it,” Tammas answered, 
under the impression that Silva was still there, “an’ speired 
at him if he had sent a line aboot Eob to the London yeditors, 
but he wudna say.” 

Tammas moved his head round and saw that he was alone. 

“ No,” he continued, thoughtfully, addressing the tomb- 
stones, “ he would neither say ’at he did nor ’at he didna. He 
juist waved his han’ like, to lat’s see ’at he was at the bottom 
o’t, but didna want it to be spoken o’. Ay, ay.” 

Tammas hobbled thoughtfully down one of the steep bury- 
ing-ground walks, until he came to a piece of sward with no 
tombstone at its head. 

“ Ay,” he said, “ there’s mony an Angus lies buried there, 
an’ Eob’s the ony ane left noo. I hae helpit to hap the earth 
ower five, ay, sax o’ them. It’s no’ to be expeckit, no, i’ the 
course o’ natur’ it’s no’ to be expeckit ’at I should last oot 
the seventh; no, but there’s nae sayin’. Ah, Eob, ye wasna 
sae fu’ o’ speerits as I’ll waurant ye are the noo, that day ye 
buried Davy. Losh, losh, it’s a queer warld.” 

“ It’s a pretty spot to be buried in,” he muttered, after a 
time; and then his eyes wandered to another part of the bury- 
ing-ground. 

“ Ay,” he said, with a chuckle, “ but I’ve a snod bit corn- 
ery up there for myseT. Ou, ay.” 


THE END. 


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June 1^. 


THE SEASIDE LIBRARY, 


POCKET EDITION. 


AVTHOKS’ CAXAI.OCiIJE. 


[When ordering by mail please order by numbers.] 


E. About. 

im A New Lease of Life 


,..*25 


Mrs. Leith Adams. 

1845 Aunt Hepsy’s Foundling*25 

Author of ^^Addie’s Hus- 
band.” 

388 Addle’s Husband; or, 
Through Clouds to Sun- 
shine 95 

604 My Poor Wife *25 

1046 Jessie ...*25 

Max Adeler. 

1550 Random Shots *25 

1569 Elbow Room *25 

Author of “A Fatal Dower.” 

246 A Fatal Dower. . . *25 

372 Phyllis’s Probation *25 

461 His Wedded Wife 25 

829 The Actor’s Ward *25 

1873 The Story of an Error. . .*25 

Author of “A Golden Bar.” 

483 Betwixt My Love and Me. *25 

Author ot ”A Great Mis- 
take.” 

244 A Great Mistake 25 

688 Cherry *25 

1040 Clarissa’s Ordeal 25 

1137 Pi'ince Charming *25 

1187 Suzanne *25 

Author ol ** A Woman’s 

liOve-Story.” 

822 A Woman’s Love-Story.. *25 
677 Griselda *25 

Author of ” For Mother’s 
Sake.” 

liOO Leonie; or. The Sweet 
Street Singer of New 
York *2S 

Author of ” He,” “It,” etc, 

1116 King Solomon’s Treas- 
ures *96 


Hamilton Aide. 

383 Introduced to Society, ..*•! 

Gustave Aimard. 

1341 The Trappers of Arkan- 
sas *96 

1396 The Adventurers ^ 

1398 Pirates of the Prairies. . . 25 

1400 Queen of the Savannah.*^ 

1401 The Buccaneer Chief *^ 

1402 The Smuggler Hero *^ 

1404 The Rebel Chief *25 

1650 The Trail-Hunter *^ 

16.53 The Pearl of the Andes.. ^ 

1672 The Insurgent Chief *^ 

1688 The Trapper's Daughter 25 

1690 The Tiger-Slayer 25 

1692 Border Rifles ^ 

1700 The Flying Horseman. . .*25 

1701 The Freebooters *25 

1714 The White Scalper *25 

1723 The Guide of the Desert. ^ 

1732 Last of the Ancas *25 

1734 Missouri Outlaws 25 

1736 Prairie Flower *25 

1740 Indian Scout *2S 

1741 Stronghand ^ 

1742 Bee-Hunters..., *25 

1744 Stoneheart *^ 

i748 The Gold-Seekers 25 

1752 Indian Chief *28 

1756 Red Track *28 

1761 The Treasure of Pearls.. 25 
1768 Red River Half-Breed. ..*^ 

Mary Albert. 

933 A Hidden Terror *96 

Grant Allen. 

712 For Maimie’s Sake *28 

1221 “ The Tents of Shem ”...*25 

1783 The Great Taboo *^ 

1870 What’s Bred in the Bone*^ 
1908 Dumaresq's Daughter... *26 
2022 Duchess of Powysland. .*25 

Mrs. Alexander. 

5 The Admiral’s Ward. . . 96 

17 The Wooing O’t ^ 

62 The Executor 25 

180 Valerie’s Fate Si 


4 


THE SEASIDE LIBRARY, 


229 Maid. Wife, or Widow?.. 25 

236 Which Shall it Be? 25 

339 Mrs. Vereker's Courier 

Maid *25 

490 A Secoud Life *25 

664 At Bay 25 

794 Beaton’s Bargain *25 

797 Look Before You Leap. ,*25 

805 The Freres *25 

806 Her Dearest Foe *25 

814 The Heritage of Langdale*25 

815 Ralph Wilton’s Weird... *25 

900 By Woman’s Wit *25 

997 Forging tlie Fetters, and 

The Anstr^Jian Aunt *25 

1054 Mona's Choice *25 

1057 A Life Interest 25 

1189 A t 'rooked Path *25 

1199 A False Scent 25 

1367 Heart Wins *25 

1459 A Woman’s H«art 25 

1571 Blind Fate *25 

Mrs. Alderdice. 

1588 An Interesting Case 25 

Alison. 

194 “So ^ear, and Yet So 

Far!’’ *25 

278 For Life and Love 25 

481 The House That Jack 
Built *25 

Hans Christian Andersen. 

1314 Andersen’s Fairy Tales.. 25 
VV. P. Andrews. 

1172 India and Her Neighbors*25 


F. Anstey. 

59 Vice Versa 25 

225 Tlie Giant’s Robe *25 

503 The Tinted Venus. A 

Farcical Romance 25 

819 A Fallen Idol *25 

1616 The Black Poodle, and 

Other Tales *25 

G. VV. Appleton. 

1846 A Terrible Legacy *25 

Annie A rmitt. 

759 In Shallow Waters *25 

T. S. Arthur. 

13.37 Woman’s Trials *25 

1636 The Two Wives 25 

1688 Married Life *25 

1640 Ways of Providence *25 

1 641 Home SdR n es *25 

1644 Stories for Parents *25 

1649 Seed-Time and Harvest. *25 

1652 Words for the- Wise *25 

1654 Stories for Young House- 

1057 Lessens In Life.’ '.'.'*25 

1868 Off-Hand Sketches. *25 


Sir Samuel Baker. 

267 Rifle and Hound in Cey- 
lon *26 

533 Eight Years Wandering 

in Ceylon *28 

1502 Cast Up by the Sea *25 

K. M. Ballautyne. 

89 The Red Eric 25 

95 The Fire Brigade *^ 

96 Erling the Bold *25 

772 Gascoyne, the Sandal- 

Woed Trader *25 

1514 Deep Down *26 

Houore De Balzac. 

776 P^reGowot 26 

1128 Cousin Pons 26 

1318 The Vendetta 26 

S. Baring^Gould. 

787 Court Royal *25 

878 Little Tu’penny *25 

1122 Eve *25 

1201 Mehalah : A Story of the 

Salt Marshes *26 

1697 Red Spider *26 

1711 The Pennycomequick8...*25 

1763 John Herring *25 

1779 Arminell *26 

1821 Urith *26 

Frank Barrett. 

986 The Great Hesper *25 

1138 A Recoiling Vengeance.. *26 

1245 Fettered for Life *25 

1461 Smuggler's Secret *25 

1611 Between Life and Death.*25 

1750 Lieutenant Barnabas *25 

1828 Under a Strange Mask, .*25 
1940 Olga’s Crime 

J. M. Barrie. 

1896 My Lady Nicotine *25 

1977 Better Dead *26 

2099 Auld Licht Idylls 26 

2100 A Window in Thrums... 96 

2101 When a Man's Single... ^ 

Basil. 

344 “The Wearing of the 

Green ’’ *25 

547 A Coquette’s Conquest..*^ 
685 A Drawn Game *25 

G. M. Bayne. 

1618 Galaski ,....*26 

Anne Beale. 

188 Idonea ♦jJS 

199 The Fisher Village *26 

Alexander Begg. 

1605 Wrecks in the Sea of 
Life ..m 


POCKET EDITION 


S 


By the Writer of “ Belle’s 
. Letters. ” 

8011 Vashti and Esther 25 


£. B. Benjamin. 

1706 Jim, the Parson *25 

1720- Our Roman Palace *25 


A. Benriino. 

1624 Vic *25 

E. F. Benson. 

wiiOo Dodo 25 

£. Berber. 

1646 Charles Auchester *25 

W. Berffsol. 

1446 Plllone *25 

E. Bertliel. 


1699 The Sergeant’s Legacy.. *25 

Walter Besant. 

97 All in a Garden Fair 25. 

137 Uncle Jack *25 

140 A Glorious Fortune *^ 

146 Love Finds the Way.and 
Other Stories. By Besant 

and Rice *25 

230 r)orothy Forster *^ , 

824 In Luck at Last *25 

641 Uncle Jack *25 

651 “ Self or Bearer ” *^ 

882 Children of Gibeon *25 

904 The Holy Rose *25 

906 The World Went Very 

Well Then 25 

980 To Call Her Mine .25 

1055 Katharine Regina *25 

1065 Herr Paulus: His Rise, 

Hi^ Greatness, and His 

Fall *25 

1143 The Inner House •‘25 

1151 For Faith and Freedom.. *25 
1240 'I'he Bell of St. Paul’s. . . .*25' 

2247 The Lament of Dives 25 

1378 They Were Married. By 
Walter Besant and Jas. 

Rice *25 

1413 Armorel of Lyonesse 25 

1462 Let Nothing You Dismay*25 
1530 When the Ship Comes 
Home. By Besant and 

Rice *25 

1655 The Demoniac *25 

1861 St. Katherine’s by the 

Tow-er *25 

8018 The Revolt of Man *25 

M. Beth aiii>Ed wards. 

1173 Love and Mirage; or,The 
Waiting on an Island. . . *25 
tf9 The Flower of Doom, and 
Other Stories *25 


594 Doctor Jacob *26 

1023 Next of Kin— Wanted... *25 
14u7 The Parting of the Ways*^ 

1500 Disarmed *25 

1543 For One and the World.. *25 
1627 A Romance of the Wire.*^ 
1845 Forestalled ; or. The Life 

Quest *25 

Jennie'Gwynne Bettany. 
1810 A Laggard in Love *25 

Bjorustjerne Bjorusoii. 

1385 Arne *25 

1388 The Happy Boy *25 

William Black. 

1 Yolande 25 

18 Shandon Bells 

21 Sunrise: A Story of These 

Times 25 

23 A Princess of Thule ^ 

39 In Silk Attire ^ 

44 Macleod of Dare 25 

49 That Beautiful Wretch.. *25 

50 The Strange Adventures 

, of a Phaeton 25 

70 White Wings: A Yacht- 
ing Romance 25 

78 Madcap Violet 25 

81 A Daughter of Heth.. .. ^ 

124 Three Feathers ^ 

125 The Monarch of Mincing 

Lane 25 

126 Kilmeny 26 

, 138 Green Pastures and Pic- 

‘ cadilly *26 

265 Judith Shakespeare: Her 
Love Affairs and Other 

Adventures *25 

472 The Wise Women of In- 
verness *25 

627 White Heather *25 

898 Roineoand Juliet: A Tale 
of Two Young Fools. . .*25 

962 Sabina Zembra, . *25 

1096 The Strange Adventures 

of a House-Boat *25 

1132 In Far Lochaber *25 

1227 The Penance of John 

Logan *25 

1259 Nanciebel: A Tale of 

Stratford-on-Avon *25 

1268 Prince Fortunatus *25 

1389 Oliver Goldsmith *26 

1394 The Four Macnicols, and 

Other Tales *25 

1426 An Adventure in Thule. .*25 

1505 Lady Silverdale's Sweet- 

heart *26 

1506 Mr. Pisistratus Brown, 

M. P *26 

1725 Stand Fast, Cralg-Roy- 

ston! *86 

1892 Donald Ross of Helinra..*26 


THE SEASIDE LIBRARY. 


R« Do Blackinore. 

17 Lorna Doone 35 

4f7 The Remarkable History 
of Sir Thomas Upinore, 

Bart., M. P *25 

615 Mary Anerley 35 

635 Erema; or, My Father’s 

Sin 25 

629 Cripps, the Carrier *25 

630 Cradock Nowell *25 

6^31 Cliristowell *25 

632 < lara Vaujrhan *25 

633 The Maid of Sker *25 

636 Alice Lorraine *25 

926 Springhaven *25 

1867 Kit and Kitty *25 

Isa BIngrdeu* 

705 The Woman I Loved, and 
the Woman Who Loved 
Me *25 

C« Blatheru'ick. 

161 The Ducie Diamonds. . . .*25 

Edffar Janes Bliss. 

S102 The Peril of Oliver Sar- 
gent 25 

Frederick Boyle. 

866 The Good Hater *25 

Miss M. E, Braddoii. 

85 Lady Audle 5 ’’s Secret... 25 

66 Phantom Fortune 25 

74 Aurora Floyd 25 

110 Under the Red Flag *26 

15.3 The Golden Calf *25 

804 Vixen 25 

211 The Octoroon 26 

334 Barbara; or. Splendid 

Misery *25 

963 An Ishmaslite *25 

815 The Mistletoe Bough. 
Christmas, 1884. Edited 
by Miss M. E. Braddon.*25 

434 Wellard’s W’eird 25 

478 Diavola; or. Nobody’s 

Daughter 25 

480 Married in Haste. Edi- 
ted by Miss M. E. Brad- 

(Jq0 05 

487 Put to the Test. Edited by 

Miss M. E. Braddou *25 

488.Toshua Haggard's 

Daughter *25 

489 Rupert Godwin *25 

495 Mount Royal *25 

496 Only a Woman. Edited 

uy Miss M. E. Braddon. *25 

497 The Lady’s Mile *25 

498 Only a Olod *25 

499 The Cloven Foot *25 

511 A Strange World *35 


515 Sir Jasper’s Tenant *25 

524 Strangers and Pilgrims. *26 

529 The Doctor’s Wife *25 

542 Fenton’s Quest *25 

544 Cut b}' the County; or,* 
Grace Darnel *25 

548 A Fatal Marriage, and 

The Shadow in the Cor- 
ner *25 

549 Dudley Carleon ; or. The 

Brother’s Secret, and 
George Caulfield’s Jour- 
ney *26 

552 Hostages to Fortune. ..*88 

553 Birds of Prey *26 

554 Charlotte’s Inheritance. 

(Sequel to “ Birds of 

Prey ”) *25 

557 To the Bitter End *25 

559 Taken at the Flood *26 

5(50 Asphodel *26 

561 Just as I am; or, A Liv- 
ing Lie 28 

567 Dead Men’s Shoes *35 

570 John Marchmont’s Leg- 
acy *38 

618 The Mistletoe Bough. 
Christmas, 1885. Edited 
by Miss M. E. Braddon. *26 
840 One Thing Needful; or, 
The Penalty of Fate. ..*25 

881 IMohawks 

890 The Mistletoe Bough. 
Christmas, 1886. Edited 
by Miss M. E. Braddon. .*25 
943 Weavers and Weft; or,. 

“ Love that Hath Us in 

His Net *25 

947 Publicans and Sinners; 
or, Lucius Davoren. . . .*26 

10516 Like and Unlike *^ 

1098 The Fatal 'I'hree *^ 

1211 The Day Will Come 25 

1411 Whose Was the Hand?. .*^ 

1664 Dead Sea Fruit *^ 

1893 The World, Flesh and the 
Devil 96 

Annie Bradshaw. 

706 A Crimson Stain *98 

Clinrlotte M. Braeme. Au- 
thor of “ Dora Thorne.” 

19 Her Mother’s Sin 25 

61 Dora Thorne 25 

54 A Broken W'edding-Ring 25 

68 A Queen Amongst 

Women 25 

69 Madolin’s Lover 36 

73 Redeemed by Lore; or. 

Love s Victory 96 

76 Wife in Name Only; or, 

A Broken Heart 98 

79 Wedded and Parted 38 


POCKET EDITION. 


92 Lord Lynne’s Choice 25 

148 Thorns and Orange- 

Blossoms 25 

190 Romance of a Black Veil 25 
220 Which Loved Him Best? 25 
287 Repented at Leisure 25 

249 “ Prince Charlie’s Daugli- 

ter;” or. The Cost of 
Her Love 25 

250 Sunshine and Roses; or, 

Diana’s Discipline 25 

254 The Wife’s Secret, and 

Fair but False 25 

283 The Sin of a Lifetime; 
or, Vivien’s Atonement 25 

201 Love’s Warfare 25 

292 A Golden Heart 25 

296 A Rose in Thorns 25 

299 The Fatal Lilies, and A 

Bride from the Sea 25 

300 A Gilded Sin, and A 

Bridge of Love 25 

803 Ingledevr Ho\ise, and 

Jlore Bitter than Death 25 

804 In Cupid’s Net 25 

805 A Dead Heart, and Lady 

Gwendoline’s Dream... 25 

306 A Golden Dawn, and 

Love for a Day 25 

307 Two Kisses, and Like no 

Other Love 25 

308 Beyond Pardon 25 

822 A Woman’s Love-Story. 25 

823 A Willful Maid 25 

411 A Bitter Atonement 25 

433 Mj'’ Sister Kate 25 

459 A'Woman’s Temptation, 25 

460 Under a Shadow 25 

465 The Earl's Atonement... 25 

466 Between Two Loves 25 

467 A Struggle for a Ring. . . 25 

469 Lady Darner’s Secret.... 25 

470 Evelyn’s Folly 25 

471 Thrown on the World... 25 
476 Between Two Sins; or. 

Married in Haste 25 

516 Put Asunder; or. Lady 
Castlemaine’s Divorce. 25 

676 Her Martyrdom 25 

626 A Fair Mystery; or, The 

Perils of Beauty 25 

741 The Heiress of Hilldrop; 
or. The Romance of a 

Young Girl 25 

745 For Another’s Sin ; or, A 

Struggle for Love 25 

792 Set in Diamonds 25 

821 The World Between 

Them 25 

822 A Passion Flower 25 

853 A True Magdalen 25 

854 A Woman’s Error 25 

922 Marjorie 25 

M6 At War With Herself ... 26 




924 ’Twixt Smile and Tear... 8K 

927 Sweet Cymbeline 86 

928 The False Vow ; or, 

Hilda: or. Lady Hut- 
ton’s Ward 25 

928 Lady Hutton’s Ward; or, 
Hilda; or. The False 
Vow 96 

928 Hilda; or. The False 

Vow; or, Ladj’ Hutton's 
Ward 35 

929 The Belle of Lynn; or. 

The Miller’s Daughter.. 25 
931 Lady Diana's Pride 25 

948 The Shadow of a Sin 25 

949 Claribel’s Love Story; or. 

Love’s Hidden Depths.. 25 

952 A Woman’s W’ar. 25 

953 Hilary’s Folly; cr. Her 

Marriage Vow 25 

955 From Gloom to Sunlight; 

or. From Out the Gloom 25 
958 A Haunted Life ; or. Her 
Terrible Sin 25 


969 The Mystery of Colde 
Fell; or. Not Proven... 

973 The Squire’s Darling 

975 A Dark Marriage Morn.. 

978 Her Second Love 

982 The Duke’s Secret 

985 On Her Wedding Morn, 
and The Mystery of the 

Holly-Tree 

988 The Shattered Idol, and 

Letty Leigh 

990 The Earl’s Error, and 

Arnold’s Promise 

995 An Unnatural Bondage, 
and That Beautiful 

Lady 

1006 His Wife’s Judgment 

1008 A Thorn in Her Heart.. 

1010 Golden Gates 

1012 A Nameless Sin 

1014 A Mad Love 

1031 Irene’s Vow 

1052 Signa’s Sweetheart 

1091 A Modern Cinderella 

1134 Lord Ele.smere's Wife 

1155 Lured Away; or. The 
Story of a Wedding- 
Ring, and The Heiress 

of Arne 

1179 Beauty’s Marriage 

1185 A Fiery Ordeal 

1195 Dumaresq’s Temptation. 

1285 Jenny 

1291 The Star of Love 

1328 Lord Lisle’s Daughter. .. 
1415 Weaker than a Woman. 
1628 Love Works Wonders. . . 

2010 Her Only Sin 

2011 A Fatal Wedding 

2012 A Bright W^edding-Day. . 




8 


THE SEASIDE LIBRARY. 


2013 One Aprainst Many 25 

2014 One False Step 25 

2015 Two Fair Women 25 

^08 Lady Latimer’s Escape, 

and Other Stories 25 

Fredrikn Bremer. 

187 The Midnight Sun *25 

John Francis Brewer. 

1911 Tlie Curse upon Mitre 
Square *25 

Charlotte Bronte. 

15 Jane Eyre 25 

67 Shirley 25 

944 The Professor *25 

Rhoda Broughton. 

86 Belinda 25 

101 Second Thoughts 25 

227 Nancy 25 

645 Mrs.Smithof Longmaius*25 

758 “Good-bye, Sweet- 
heart!” *25 

765 Not Wisely, But Too Well 25 

767 Joan .*25 

768 Red as a Rose is She . . . .*25 

769 Cometh Up as a Flower. *25 

862 Betty’s Visions *25 

894 Doctor Cupid .... *25 

1599 Alas! *25 

liouise de Britneval. 

1686 Sceur Louise *25 

Robert Buchanan. 

145 ” Storm - Beaten God 

and The Man *25 

154 Annan Water *25 

181 The New Abelard *25 

268 The Martyrdom of Mad- 
eline *25 

398 Matt: A Tale of a Cara- 
van *25 

468 The Shadow of the Sword=^25 

646 The Master of the Mine. *25 
892 That Winter Night; or, 

Love’s Victoiy *25 

1074 Stormy Waters *25 

1104 The Heir of Litine *25 

1350 liOve Me Forever 25 

1455 The Moment After *25 

John Biinyan. 

1408 The Pilgrim’s Progress.. 25 

Captain Fred Burnaby. 


830 “ Our Radicals” *25 

376 A Ride to Khiva 25 

384 On Horseback Through 
Asia Minor *25 


John BIoinidelle'Burton. 

913 The Silent Shore; or. 


The Mystery 

of St 

James’ Park.. 

*98 

Beatrice M. 

Butt. 

1354 Delicia 

...*26 

2019 Miss Molly 


2044 Eugenie 

*25 

2056 Geraldine Hawthorne. . .*25 


Author of “By Crooked 
Paths.” 

430 A Bitter Reckoning *#6 

E. Easseter Bynner. 

14.56 Nimport *26 

1460 Tritons *86 

Lord Byron. 

719 Childe Harold’s Pilgrim- 
age *25 

E. Fairfax Byrrne. 

521 Entangled *25 

538 A Fair Country Maid... .*26 

Mrs. H. M. Cadell. 

2039 Ida Craven *25 

ftlrs. Caddy. 

127 Adrian Bright *26 

Hall Caine. 

445 The Shadow of a Crime. 26 
520 She’s All the World to 

Me 25 

12.34 The Deemster 25 

12.55 The Bondman 25 

2079 A Sonflof Hagar 26 

2096 The Mahdi 25 

Alona Caird. 

1699 The Wing of Azrael *28 

Ada Cambridge. 

1.583 A Marked Man *25 

1967 My Guardian *26 

2139 The Three Miss Kings. . . 26 

Mrs. H. liovett Cameron. 

595 A North Country Maid.. *26 

796 In a Grass Country *26 

891 Vera Nevill; or. Poor 

Wisdom’s Chance *25 

912 Pure Gold *25 

963 Worth Winning *25 

1025 Dai.sy’s Dilemma *26 

1028 A Devout Lover; or, A 

Wasted Love 26 

1070 A Life’s Mistake *25 

1204 The Lodge by the Sea... *25 

1205 A Lost Wife *26 

1236 Her Father’s Daughter .*26 


POCKET EDITION. 


f 


1961 Wild George’s Daughter. *25 

1290 The Cost of a Lie... *25 

1292 Bosky Dell *25 

1549 The Cruise of the Black 

Prince *25 

1782 A Dead Past *25 

1819 Neck or Nothing *25 

1901 Proved Unworthy *25 

Imdy Colin Campbell. 
1325 Darell Blake *25 

liosa Noiicbette Carey. 

215 Not Like Other Girls... 25 
396 Robert Ord’s Atonement 25 
651 Barbara Heathcote’s 

Trial 25 

608 For Lilias 25 

930 Uncle Ma.x 25 

932 Queenie’s Whim 25 

934 Wooed and Married ^ 

936 Nellie's Memories 25 

961 Wee Wifle 25 

1033 Esther: A Story for Girls 25 

1064 Only the Governess 25 

1135 Aunt Diana 25 

1194 The Search for Basil 

Lyndhurst 25 

1208 Merle s Crusade *25 

1545 Lover or Friend? 25 

1879 Mary St. John 25 

1965 Averil 25 

1966 Our Bessie 25 

1968 Heriot’s Choice 25 

William Carleton. 

1493 Willy Reilly *25 

1552 Shane Fadli’s Wedding.. *25 
15.53 LarryMcFarland’s Wake*25 
1554 The Party Fight and 

Funeral *25 

1.556 The Midnight Mass *25 

1557 Phil Purcel *25 

15.58 An Irish Oath *25 

1560 Going to Maynooth *25 

1561 Phelim O’Toole’s Court- 
ship *25 

1562 Dominick, the Poor 

Scholar *25 

1564 Neal Malone. *25 

Alice Comyns Carr, 

171 Paul Crew’s Story *25 

Lewis Carroll, 

469 Alice’s Adventures in 
Wonderland. Illustrated 

by John Tenniel *25 

789 Through the Looking- 
Glass, and What Alice 
Found There. Illustra- 
ted by John Tenniel *25 

Cerrantes, 

li76 Don Quixote 96 


L. W. Cliampuey, 

1468 Bourbon Lilies *25 

Erckmann-Chutrian. 

.329 The Polish Jew. (Trans- 
lated from the French 
by Caroline A. Merighi.)*#! 

Victor Clierbiiliez. 

1.516 Samuel Brohl & Co *25 

2001 Joseph Noirel’s Re- 


venge *25 

2020 Count Kostia *25 

2021 Prosper *26 


Mrs. M. Clnrlte, 

1801 More True than Truthful*26 

W. M. Clemens. 

1544 Famous Funny Fellows. *;Wi 

Mrs. W. K. Clifford, 

2104 Love Letters of a World- 
ly Woman 26 

J, Maclaren Cobban, 

485 Tinted t^apours *25 

1279 Master of His Fate. . . . *25 
1511 A Reverend Gentleman . *25 
1953 The Horned Cat *25 

John Coleman, 

504 Curly: An Actor’s Story *26 

C. R. Coleridge, 

403 An Engli.sh Squire *25 

1689 A Near Relation *25 

Beatrice Collensie, 

1352 A Double Marriage *95 

Mabel Collins. 

749 Xord Vanecourt’s Daugh- 
ter 96 

828 The Prettiest Woman in 

Warsaw *26 

1463 Ida: An Adventure in 
Morocco *95 

Wilkie Collins. 

52 The New Magdalen 25 

102 The Moonstone £5 

167 Heart and Science *25 

168 No Thoroughfare. By 

Dickens and Collins *25 

175 Love’s Random Shot, 

and Other Stories 25 

233 “I Say No;” or, The 
Love-Letter Answered. 25 

508 The Girl at the Gate 25 

591 The Queen of Hearts *25 

613 The Ghost’s Toiich, and 
Percy and the Prophet. *26 
693 My Lady’s Money 96 








10 


THE SEASIDE LIBRAEY. 


701 The Woman in White.. . 96 

702 Man and Wife 35 

764 The Evil Genius *25 

896 The Guilty River *26 

946 The Dead Secret *25 

977 The Haunted Hotel 25 

1029 Armadale 25 

1095 The Legacy of Cain *25 

1119 No Name 25 

1269 Blind Love *25 

1347 A Rogue’s Life *25 

1608 Tales of Two Idle Ap- 
prentices. By Charles 
Dickens and Wilkie Col- 
lins *25 

1196 Miss or Mrs.? *25 

HI. J. Colqnlionn. 

•24 Primus in Indis *25 

1469 Every Inch a Soldier . ...*25 

liiicy Kandall Comfort. 
•072 For Marjorie's Sake 25 

IJiigli Conway. 

240 Called Back 25 

•51 The Daughter of the 
Stars, and Other Tales., *25 

801 Dark Days 25 

802 The Blatchford Bequest. *25 

541 A Dead Man’s Face *25 

802 Carriston’s Gift *25 

525 Paul Vargas, and Other 

Stories *25 

643 A Family Affair *25 

601 Slings and Arrows, and 

Other Stories *25 

711 A Cardinal Sin *25 

804 Living or Dead *25 

830 Bound by a Spell *25 

13.53 All In One *25 

1684 Story of a Sculptor *25 

1722 Somebody’s Story *25 


385 The Headsman; or. The 
Abbaye des Vignerons*28 

394 The Bravo. *^ 

397 Lionel Lincoln; or. The 

Leaguer of Boston *25 

400 The Wept of Wish-Ton- 
Wish 28 

413 Afloat and Ashore 96 

414 Miles Wallingford. (Se- 

quel to “ Afloat and 
Ashore”) 95 

415 The Ways of the Hour. .*^ 

416 Jack Tier; or, The Flor- 

ida Reef 35 

419 TheChainbearer; or. The 

Littlepage Manuscripts*3B 

420 Satanstoe ; or, The Little- 

page Manuscripts *38 

421 The Redskins; or. In- 

dian and Injin. Being 
the conclusion of the 
Littlepage Manuscripts*26 

422 Precaution *25 

42;) The Sea Lions; or. The 

Lost Sealers *25 

424 Mercedes of Castile; or. 

The Voyage to Cathay. .*26 

425 The Oak-Openings; or. 

The Bee-Hunter *25 

431 TheMonikins *25 

1062 The Deerslayer ; or, The*25 

First War-Path 

1170 The Pilot 26 

Mai'ie Corelli. 

1068 Vendetta! or. The Story 

of One Forgotten 25 

1131 Thelma 25 

1329 My Wonderful Wife!.... 26 

1663 Wormwood., 25 

2089 The Hired Baby 25 

2132 Ardath 96 

2136 A Romance of Two 
Worlds 96 


J. Feniinore Cooper. 

60 The Last of the Mohi- 
cans 25 

63 The Spy 25 

309 The Pathfinder 25 

310 The Prairie 25 

818 The Pioneers; or, The 

Sources of the Susque- 
hanna 25 

349 The Two Admirals 25 

3.59 The Water-W itch *25 

861 The Red Rover *25 

373 Wing and Wing 25 

378 Homeward Bound; or, 

The Chase 25 

379 Home as Found. (Sequel 

to “Homeward Bound”)*25 
MO Wyandotte ; or. The Hut- 
ltd KnoU 35 


Alice Corkran. 

2051 Bessie Lang *36 

K.inahan Corii'wallis. 

1601 Adrift With a Vengeance*28 

Madame Cottin. 

1.306 Elizabeth *38 

John Coventry. 

2057 After His Kind *35 

Georgiaiia M. Craik. 

450 Godfrey Helstone *25 

606 Mrs. Hollyer *25 

1681 A Daughter of the People 36 

Augustus Craven. 

1917 Fleurangt .*36 


POCKET EDITION. 


11 


Oswald Crawfurd. 

1789 Sylvia Arden *25 

R. K. Criswell. 

1584 Grandfather Lickshingle*25 

S. R. Crockett. 

2005 The Stickit Minister 25 

B. 31. Croker. 

207 Pretty Miss Neville 25 

260 Proper Pride 25 

412 Some One Else 25 

1124 Diana Barrington *25 

1607 Two Masters *25 

3Iay Croinnielin. 

452 In the West Countrie *25 

619 Joy; or, The Light of 

Cold Home Ford *25 

647 Goblin Gold *25 

1327 Midge *25 

1399 Violet Vyvian, BI.P.H.. . .*25 
1902 The Freaks of Lady P’or- 
tune *25 

Stuart C. Cumberland. 

641 The Rabbi’s Spell *25 

3Iaria S. Cummins. 

1984 The Lamplighter *25 

311*8. Dale. 

1806 Fair and False *25 

1808 Behind the Silver Veil. . .*25 

R. II. Dana. Jr. 

811 Two Years Before the 
Mast *25 

Frank Dauby. 

1379 The Copper Crash *25 

Joyce Darrell. 

168 Winifred Power *25 

Alphonse Daudet. 

584 Jack *25 

574 The Nabob: A Story of 
Parisian Life and Man- 
ners *~!5 

1368 Lise Tavernier *25 

1629 Tartarinof Tarascon — *25 

1666 Sidonie *25 

1670 The Little Good-for-Noth- 

ing 25 

*061 Sappho 25 

C. Debans. 

16J6 A Sheep in Wolf’s Cloth- 
ing *25 

Daniel Defoe* 

1812 Robinson Crusoe 


R. D’Ennery. 

242 The Two Orphans 2d 

Count De (Jobineau. 

1606 Typhaines Abbey *06 

Hugh De Norniand. 

1454 The Gypsy Queen *25 

Thomas De Quinces’^. 

1059 Confessions of an En- 
glish Opium-Eater...’.. 25 
1380 The Spanish Nun *25 

Earl of Desart. 

1301 The Little Chatelaine *26 

1817 Lord and Lady Piccadilly*25 
1853 Herne Lodge *^ 

Elsa D’Esterre-Keeliiig. 

382 Three Sisters 25 

Carl Detlef. 

1086 Nora *26 

1418 Irene. *25 

Charles Dickens. 

10 The Old Curiosity Shop. 26 

22 David Copperfield 26 

24 Pickwick Papers 26 

37 Nicholas Nickleby 25 

41 Oliver Twist 25 

77 A Tale of Two Cities. ... 26 

84 Hard Times.... 25 

91 Barnaby Rudge 25 

94 Little Dorrit ... 25 

106 Bleak House 25 

107 Dombey and Son 25 

108 T h e Cricket on the 

Hearth, and Doctor Mar- 
igold *26 

131 Our Mutual Friend 26 

132 M a s t e r Hum phrey’s 

Clock *26 

152 The Uncommercial Trav- 
eler 2S 

168 No Thoroughfare. By 

Dickens and Collins *25 

169 The Haunted Man *25 

437 Life and Adventures of 

Martin Chuzzlewit *25 

439 Great Expectations *25 

440 Mrs. Lirriper’s Lodgings*25 

447 American Notes *28 

448 Pictures From Italy, and 

The Mud fog Papers, &c*26 
454 The Mystery of Edwin 

Drood *26 

456 Sketches by Boz. Illus- 
trative of Every-day 
Life and Every-day <4 

people *96 

676 A Child’s History of Eng- 
land 96 

7«1 The Boy Mugby. *26 


THE SEASroE LIBRARY. 


n 


1520 Sketches of Young Cou- 
ples. . *25 

1529 The Haunted House, etc. *25 
1533 A Christinas Carol, etc. .*25 
1541 Somebody’s Luggage. . .*25 
1608 Tales of Two Idle “Ap- 
prentices. By Dickens 
and Collins *25 

Rt. Hon. Benjamin Disva- 
eli» Earl of Beacousfield. 

798 Vivian Grey *25 


Author of “Dr. Edith Rom- 
ney.” 

612 My Wife’s Niece *25 

Sarah Douduey. 

838 The Family Difficulty. . .*25 
679 Where Two Ways Meet. *25 

Richard Dowling. 

1829 Miracle Gold *25 

18^ A Baffling Quest *25 

Edmund Downey. 

1746 A House of Tears, *25 

1793 In One Towm *25 

A. Conan Doyle. 

1305 The Firm of Girdlestone 25 
1894 The White Company. ... 25 

1980 A Study in Scarlet 25 

2077 The Captain of the “Pole- 

■>’ 25 

2092 Beyond the City 25 

2093 A Scandal in Bohemia.. 25 

2094 The Sign of the Four.. . 25 

2103 The Mystery of Cloomber 25 
SI 09 Micah Clark 26 

Catherine Drew. 

9055 The Lutaniste of St. 
Jacobi’s *25 

Edith Stewart Drewry. 

1846 Baptized With a Curse.. *25 
Gustave Droz. 

9002 Babolain *25 

9047 Around a Spring *25 

Henry Drummond. 

1813 The Greatest Thing in 
the World *25 

F. Dn Boisgohey. 

82 Sealed Lips 25 

104 The Coral Pin *35 

364 Pi^douche, a French De- 

396 Babiolei ‘the 'Pretty ’ Mil- 
liner *95 


453 The Lottery Ticket *96 

475 The Prima Donna's Hus- 
band *25 


522 Zig-Zag, the Clown; or, 

Tue Steel Gauntlets *96 

523 The Consequences of a 

Duel. A Parisian Ro- 
mance *25 

648 .The Angel of the Bells. .*25 

697 The Pretty Jailer *25 

699 The Sculptor’s Daugh- 
ter *25 

782 The Closed Door *25 

851 The Cry of Blood *25 

918 The Red Band *25 

942 Cash on Delivery *26 

1076 The Mystery of an Omni- 
bus *25 

1080 Bertha’s Secret *25 

1082 The Severed Hand *^ 

1085 The Mata pan Affair. . . .*25 
1088 The Old Age of Mon- 
sieur Lecoq *25 

1730 The Blue Veil *25 

1762 The Detective’s Eye *25 

1765 The Red Lottery Ticket. *25 
1777 A Fight for a Foi-tune.. .*25 

“The Duchess.*’ 

2 Molly Bawn 25 

6 Portia 25 

14 Airy Fairy Lilian 25 

16 Phyllis 25 

25 Mrs. Geoffrey 25 

29 Beauty’s Daughters 25 

30 Faith and Unfaith ^ 

118 Loys, Lord Berresford, 

and Eric Dering *25 

119 Monica, and A Rose Dis- 

till’d 25 

123 Sweet is True Love ^ 

129 Rossmojme. 26 

134 The Witching Hour, and 

Other Stories *35 

136 “That Last Rehearsal,” 

and Other Stories *96 

166 Moonshine and Marguer- 
ites 25 

171 Fortune’s AVheel, and 

Other Stories 25 

284 Doris ^ 

312 A Week’s Amusement; 

or, A Week in Killarney*36 
342 The Baby, and One New 


Year's Eve 

*25 

390 Mildred Trevauion. 

25 

404 In Durance Vile, 

and 

Other Stories 


486 Dick’s Sweetheart. . 

25 

494 A Maiden All Forlorn, 

and Barbara 

*38 

517 A Passive Crime, 

and 

Other Stories 

....*86 


541 “ As It Fell Upon a Day” % 


POCKET EDITIOIS. 


13 


733 Lady Branksmere 2f5 

771 A Mental Struggle *25 

785 The Haunted Chamber .*25 

862 Ugly Barrington 25 

875 Lady Vahvorth’s Dia- 
monds 25 

1009 In an Evil Hour, and 

Other Stories *25 

1016 A Modern Circe 25 

1035 The Duchess 25 

1047 Marvel 25 

1103 The Honorable Mrs. 

Vprplr<^r *^25 

1123 Under-Currents 25 

1197 “Jerry.”— “That Night 
in June.” — A Wrong 
Turning. — Irish Love 

and Marriage 25 

1209 A Troublesome Girl *25 

1249 A Life’s Remorse 25 

1333 A Born Coquette 25 

1363 “April’s Lady” 25 

1453 Her Last Throw *25 

1862 A Little Irish Girl 25 

1891 A Little Rebel 25 

Alexander Diinias« 

55 The Three Guardsmen.. 25 

75 Twenty Years After 25 

262 The Count of Monte- 

Cristo. Part 1 25 

262 The Count of Monte- 

Cristo. Part II 25 

717 Beau Tancrede : or, The 

Marriage Verdict *25 

1058 Masaniello; or, The Fish- 
erman of Naples 25 

1840 The Sou of Monte-Cristo 25 
1642 Monte-Cristo and His 
Wife. A Sequ^ to the 
“Count of Monte- 

Cristo” 25 

1645 The Countess of Monte- 

Cristo • 25 

1676 Camille 25 

2064 The Vicomte de Brage- 

lonne 25 

2065 Ten Years Later 25 

2066 Louise de la Valliere. ... 25 

2067 The Man in the li on 

Mask 25 

2075 The Twin Lieutenants. . . 25 

2076 The Page of the Duke of 

Savoy 25 

2110 The Two Dianas 25 

2111 The Black Tulip 25 

2112 Olympe de Clevis 25 

2113 The Chevalier d’Harmen- 

tal; or. The Conspira- 
tors 2.5 

2114 The Regent’s Daughter. 25 
*115 Marguerite de Valois... 25 
8116 La Lame de Monsoreau ; 

or, Chicot the Jester. . . 25 


2117 The Forty-Five Guards* 


men 25 

2118 Joseph Balsamo 25 


2119 Memoirs of a Physician 25 

2120 The Queen’s Necklace.. 2i 

2121 Ange Pitou; or, Taking 

the Bastile ; or, Six 
Years Later 25 

2122 The Countess de Charny 25 

2123 Andr6e de Taverney 25 

2124 The Chevalier de Maison 

Rouge 25 

2125 The First Republic; or, 

The Whites and the 
Blues 25 

2126 The Company of Jehu.. 25 

2127 The She-Wolves of Ma- 

checoul; or, The Last 
Vend6e 25 

2128 The Corsican Brothers. . 25 

2134 Edmond Dantes 25 

2138 The Son of Porthos 25 

Sara Jeannette Duncan. 
1852 An American Girl in Lon- 
don *25 

2137 A Social Departure 25 

George Kbers, 

474 Serapis. An Historical 

Novel 25 

983 Uarda 25 

10.56 The Bride of the Nile 25 

1094 Homo Sum 25 

1097 The Burgomaster’s Wife*25 
1101 An Egyptian Princess... 25 

1106 The Emperor 25 

1112 Only a Word 25 

1114 The Sisters *25 

1198 Gred of Nuremberg. A 
Romance of the Fif- 
teenth Century 25 

1266 Joshua: A Biblical Pict- 
ure 25 

Maria Edgeworth. 

708 Ormond *25 

788 The Absentee. An Irish 

Story *25 

1948 Popular Tales *25 

Amelia B. Edwards. 

99 Barbara’s History 25 

354 Hand and Glove *25 

1364 My Brother’s Wife *25 

1901 Miss Care w *25 

Mrs. Annie Edwards, 

644 A Girton Girl *25 

834 A Ballroom Repentance. 25 

aS5 Vivian the Beauty *25 

a36 A Point of Honor *25 

837 A Vagabond Heroine.... *25 

838 Ought We to Visit Her?.. *86 


14 


THE SEASIDE LIBRARY, 


889 Leah: A Woman of 
Fashion *25 

841 Jet: Her Face or Her 

Fortune? *25 

842 A Blue-Stocking *25 

843 Archie Lovell *25 

844 Susan Fielding *25 

845 Philip Earnscliffe ; or. 

The Morals of May Fair*25 

846 Steven Lawrence *25 

850 A Playwright's Daughter*25 

H. Siillierlantl Edwards. 

917 The Case of Reuben Ma- 
lachi *25 

Mrs. C. J. Eiloart. 

114 Some of Our Girls *25 

George Eliot. 

3 The Mill on the Floss.... 25 

81 Middlemarch 25 

34 Daniel Derouda 25 

36 Adam Bede 25 

42 Romola 25 

693 Felix Holt, the Radical.. *25 
707 Silas IMarner: The 

Weaver of Raveloe 25 

“728 Janet’s Repentance *25 

762 Impressions of Theo- 
phrastus Such *25 

1441 Amos Barton *25 

1501 The Spanish Gypsy, and 

Other Poems 25 

1504 Brother Jacob *25 

Frances Elliot. 

381 The Red Cardinal *25 

liOiiis Enault. 

9058 Christine *25 

Mrs. T. Erskine. 

2043 Wyncote *25 

Eva Evergreen, 

1858 Agatha *25 

lliigli Ewing. 

9032 A Castle in the Air *25 

Jiiliiina Iloratia Ewing. 
752 Jackanapes, and Other 

Stories *25 

1880 A Flat Iron for a Farth- 
ing *25 

Kate Eyi'e, 

1804 A Step in the Dark *25 

Olive P. Fairchild. 

1800 A Choice of Chance *25 

1802 A Struggle for Love *25 

11. Fnrley. 

1095 Christmas Stories *29 


B, L. Farjeon, 

179 Little Make-Believe *29 

573 Love's Harvest *25 

607 Self-Doomed *26 

616 The Sacred Nugget *25 

6.57 Christmas Angel *25 

907 The Bright Star of Life. *25 
909 The Nine of Hearts *25 

1383 3'he Mystery of M. Felix.*25 

1518 Gautran *25 

1735 A Very Young Couple... *25 

1790 A Secret Inheritance *25 

1791 Basil and Annette *25 

1812 Merry, Merry Boys *26 

1816 The Peril of Richard 

Pardon *25 

1875 A Blood White Rose *25 

1H81 Grif *25 

1889 The Duchess of Ros- 

raary Lane *25 

1890 Toilers of Babylon *25 

1947 Ties, Human and Divine*26 
1962 For the Defence. *25 

1988 Doctor Glennie’s Daugh- 
ter *25 

1989 Aunt Parker *25 

Ilon.Mrs.Fcatliei'stonliaugh 

1343 Dream Faces *26 

Heinrich Felbermann. 

355 The Princess Dagomar 
of Poland. *25 

G. Manville Fenn, 

193 The Rosery Folk *25 

5.58 Poverty Corner *25 

587 The Parson o’ Dumford.*25 
609 The Dark House *25 

1169 Commodore Junk *25 

1276 The Mynns’ Mystery... *25 

1293 In Jeopardy *25 

1302 The Master of the Cere- 
monies *25 

1313 Eve at the Wheel *25 

1344 One Blaid’s Mischief *25 

1387 Eli’s Children *25 

1680 This Blan’s Wife *25 

1694 The Bag of Diamonds... *25 

1743 The Haute Noblesse *25 

1749 Story of Anthony Grace.*25 

1788 Black Blood 25 

1799 Lady Blau'de’s Blania *25 

1815 A Double Knot *26 

1824 A Blint of Money *26 

1936 A ^Golden Dream *25 

2016 The Golden Magnet *25 

Octave F'euillet. 

66 The Romance of a Poor 

Young Blau 95 

386 Led Astray; or, “La 
Petite Comtesse ’’ *96 

1427 A Marriage in Higk Life*25 


POCKET EDITION. 


15 


#02S Divorce; or, The Trials 
and Temptations of a 
Lovely Woman *25 

Gertrude Forde. 

1072 Only a Coral Girl *25 

1849 In the Old Palazzo *25 

R. £. Forrest. 

879 The Touchstone of Peril.*25 
1868 Eight Days *^ 

nirs, Forrester. 

80 June 25 

380 Omnia Vanitas. A Tale 

of Society 25 

484 Although He Was a 
Lord, and Other Tales. *25 
715 I Have Lived and Loved*25 

721 Dolores *25 

724 ]\ly Lord and My Lady... *25 

726 My Hero *25 

727 Fair Women 25 

729 Miguon *25 

732 From Olympus to Hades*25 

734 Viva *25 

736 Roy and Viola *25 

740 Rhona *25 

744 Diana Carew; or. For a 

Woman’s Sake *25 

888 Once Again *25 

.637 A Young Man’s Fancy.. *25 

Jessie Fothergill* 

314 Peril ' *25 

572 Healey *25 

935 Borderland : *25 

1099 The Lasses of Lever- 

house *25 

1275 A March in the Ranks. ..*25 

1377 'I he Fir-st Violin 25 

1843 Kith and Kin *25 

1978 From Moor Isles *25 

1999 One of Three *25 

Francesca. 

53 The Story of Ida *25 

R. £. Fraiicilloii. 

186 A Great Heiress : A Fort- 
une in Seven Checks... *25 
319 Face to Face : A Fact in 


Seven Fables *25 

360 Ropes of Sand *25 

656 The Golden Flood. By 
R. E. Francillon and 

Wm. Senior *25 

911 Golden Bells *25 

1666 A Real Queen *25 

182.5 King or Knave? *25 

•003 Under Slieve-Ban *25 

•007 The New Duchess *25 

A. Franklyn. 

1470 Ameline de Bourg *25 


Ulrs. Alexander Fraser. 

1351 She Came Between *26 

1826 The Match of the Season*25 
1928 A Fashionable Marriage*26 

Charlotte French. 

387 The Secret of the Cliffs.. *25 

L. Virginia French. 

1633 My Roses *36 

J. A Froude. 

1180 The Two Chiefs of Dun- 
boy; or. An Irish Ro- 
mance of the Last Cent- 
ury *26 

Jiady Georgiana Fullerton. 

1286 Ellen Middleton *36 

£inile Gaboriau. 

7 File No. 113 25 

12 Other People’s Money. . . 25 
20 Within an Inch of His 

Life 25 

26 Monsieur Lecoq 25 

33 The Clique of Gold 25 

38 The Widow Lerouge 25 

43 The Myster}' of Orcival. 25 

144 Promises of Marriage... 25 

979 The Count’s Secret 25 

1002 Marriage at a Venture. .*25 
1015 A Thousand Francs Re- 
ward *25 

1045 The 13th Hussars 25 

1078 The Slaves of Paris 26 

1083 The Little Old Man of 

the Batignolles *25 

1167 Captain Contauceau *25 

Fflwai-fl Garrett. 

352 At Any Cost *35 

Mrs. Gaskell. 

938 Cranford *25 

Theophile Gautier. 

1923 Avatar *25 

Henry George. 

1946 The Condition of Labor. *36 

Charles Gibbon. 

64 A Maiden Fair *25 

317 By Mead and Stream *35 

1277 \Vas Ever Woman in this 

Humor Wooed? *25 

1434 The Golden Shaft *26 

1795 The Dead Heart *28 

1874 Blood Money *25 

1886 Beyond Compare ..*25 

1913 Amoret *36 

1921 What Would You Do, 
Love? *29 


16 


THE SEASIDE LIBRAKY. 


D. Cecil Gibbs. 

807 If Love Be Love *25 

Tbeo. Gift. 

1300 Lil Lorimer *25 

1435 Dishonored *25 

1844 Pretty Miss Bellew *25 

1994 Victims *25 

2004 Maid Ellice *25 

2027 A Matter-of-fact Girl. . . .*25 

Gilbert and Sullivan. 

692 The Mikado, and Other 
Comic Operas *25 

K. Murray Gilcbrist. 

1703 Passion the Plaything.. .*25 
Weiiona Gilman. 

1794 Oni .*25 

Ida Linn Girard. 

1860 A Dangerous Game *25 

tioethe* 

1043 Faust 25 

Howard J. Goldsinid. 

1883 Riven Asunder *25 

Oliver Goldsinitli. 

801 She Stoops to Conquer, 
and The Good-Natured 

Man 25 

1316 The Vicar of Wakefield.. 25 

Edward Goodman. 

1061 Too Curious *25 

Mrs. Gore. 

1449 The Dean’s Daughter., . .*25 
Barbara Graliaiii. 

632 Arden Court *25 

Sarah Grand. 

2068 Singularly Deluded 25 

James Grant. 

666 The Royal Highlanders; 
or. The Black Watch in 

Egypt *25 

781 The Secret Dispatch *25 

1935 Dick Rodney *25 

5950 'J’he Adventures of Rob 
Roy *25 

Miss Grant. 

S22 The Sun-Maid *25 

555 Cara Roma *25 

Annabel Gray. 

1174 Terribly Tempted *25 

Arnold Gray. 

m Periwinkle *26 


Maxwell Gray. 

1034 The Silence of Dean Mait- 
land 96 

1182 The Reproach of Annes- 

ley 95 

1839 In the Heart of the 
Storm *25 

Henri Greville. 

?678 Frankley *25 

Cecil Griflltb. 

583 Victory Deane *25 

Arthur Griilitbs. 

614 No. 99 *25 

680 Fast and Loose *25 

2028 Lola *25 

Brothers Grimm. 

1509 Grimm’s Fairy Tales. 
(Illustrated.) *25 

Author of “Guilty Without 
Crime.” 

545 Vida’s Story *26 

Guinevere. 

1805 Little Jewel *26 

Lieutenant J. W. Gunnison. 

1610 History of the Mormons.*26 

F. W. Hacklander. 

1669 Forbidden Fruit *26 

II. Rider Haggard. 

432 The Witch’s Head 26 

753 King Solomon’s Mines.. 25 
910 She: A History of Ad- 
venture 26 

941 Jess 25 

959 Dawn 25 

989 Allan Quatermain ^ 

1049 A Tale of Three Lions, 
and On Going Back. . . .*25 

1100 Mr. Meeson's Will ^ 

1105 Maiwa's Revenge *25 

1140 Colonel Quaritch, V. C...*^ 

1145 My Fellow Laborer *25 

1190 Cleopatra: Being an Ac- 
count of the Fall and 
Vengeance of Har • 
machis, the Royal Egyp- 
tian, as Set Forth by his 


own Hand 

.... 26 

1248 Allan’s Wife 


1335 Beatrice 

... *25 

1635 The World’s Desire. 

By 

H. Rider Haggard 

and 

Andrew Lang 

....*26 

1849 Eric Brighteyes 


Liidovic Halevy 

• 

1408 L’Abb6 Constantin.. 



POCKET EDITION. 17 


Georgre Halse. 

1786 The Weeping Ferry *25 

Thomas Hardy. 

ISO The Romantic Advent- 
ures of a Milkmaid 25 

530 A Pair of Blue Eyes 25 

690 Far From the Madding 

Crowd 25 

791 The Mayor of Caster- 

bridge *25 

945 The Trumpet-Major *25 

957 The Woodlanders *25 

1309 Desperate Remedies *25 

1430 Two on a Tower *^ 

1973 A Laodicean *25 

1974 The Hand of Ethelberta*25 

1975 The Return of the Native*25 

1976 Under the Green w'ood 

Tree *25 

Beatrice Ilarraden. 

2071 Ships That Pass in the 

Night *25 

S(B7 At the Green Dragon 25 

John B. Harwood. 

143 One False, Both Fair. ,..*25 

3.58 Within the Clasp *25 

1307 The Lady Egeria *^ 

Joseph Hatton. 

1390 Cly tie *25 

1429 By Order of the Czar. . .:*25 

1480 Cruel London .*25 

1764 The Abbey Murder *25 

1786 The Great World *25 

2008 A Modern Ub^sses *25 

Nathaniel Hawthorne. 

1590 Twice-Told Tales 25 

1592 Grandfather’s Chair ... *25 

1969 The Scarlet Letter 26 

1970 Legends of the Province 

House. . . *25 

1971 Mosses from an Old 

Manse I *25 

1972 The New Adam and Eve, 

and Other Stories *25 

Mary Cecil Hay. 

65 Back totlie Old Home.. 25 
72 Old Myddelton’s Money 25 

196 Hidden Perils 25 

197 For Her Dear Sake 25 

224 The Arundel Motto 25 

The Squire’s Legacy.... 25 

290 Nora’s Love Test 25 

408 Lester’s Secret 25 

678 Dorothy’s Venture 25 

716 Victor and Vanquished.. *25 

849 A Wicked Girl 25 

987 Brenda Yorke 25 

1026 A Dark Inheritance *25 

16^ Under the Will *25 

3678 My First Offer 36 


W. Heimburg. 

994 A Penniless Orplian *96 

1175 A Tale of an Old Castle.. 26 

1188 My Heart’s Darling *;^ 

1216 The Story of a Clergy- 
man’s Daughter .*25 

1242 Lenore Von Tollen *^ 

12'(t) Gertrude’s Marriage ^ 

1289 Her Only Brother 25 

Fr. Henkel. 

1030 The Mistress of Ibich- 

stein *2d 

G. A. llenty. 

1224 The Curse of Carne’s 

Hold *25 

1818 A Hidden Foe *^ 

H. Herman. 

1419 Scarlet Fortune. *26 

John Hill. 

112 The Waters of Marah...*25 

Mrs. Cashel-Hoey. 

313 The Lover's Creed *96 

802 A Stern Chase *25 

Thomas Holcomb. 

1369 The Counterfeiters of the 
Cuyahoga *96 

G. H. Hollister. 

2033 Kinley Hollow *25 

Mrs. M. A. Holmes. 

1338 A Woman’s Vengeance. .*25 
1546 Woman Against Woman*25 

Thomas Hood. 

407 Tylney Hall *C 

Anthony Hope. 

9097 A Change of Air 25 

2098 The Dolly Dialogues 

2140 Sport Royal 25 

Tighe Hopkins. 

509 Nell Haffeuden *25 

714 ’Twixt Love and Duty. ..*25 
2006 The Incomplete Advent- 
urer, and the Boom in 
Bell-Topps *36 

Arabella M. Hopkinson. 

1348 Life’s Fitful Fever *96 

Mary Hoppus. 

170 A Great Treason *96 

Robert Hoiidiu. 

1406 The Tricks of the (slreefc3*3B 


18 


THE SEASIDE LIBEART. 


liady Constance Howard. 


1859 Sweetheart and Wife. . . .*25 
1884 Mollie Darling *25 

Thomas Hughes* 

130 Tom Brown’s School 

Days at Rugby 25 

1189 Tom Brown at Oxford.. 25 

Victor Hugo. 

886 Les Mis6rables. Parti.. 25 
885 Les Mis6rables. Part II. 25 
885 Les Mis6rables. Part III. 25 


•135 The Hunchback of Notre 
Dame 25 

Mary E. Hullah. 

•04S In Hot Haste *25 

Fergus W. Hume. 

1075 The Mystery of a Han- 
som Cab 25 

1127 Madam Midas *25 

1232 The Piccadilly Puzzle. . .*25 
1425 The Man with a Secret. .*25 

1904 The Girl From Malta *25 

1984 The Year of Miracle. . .*25 
1964 The Man Who Vanished*25 
1992 Miss Mephistopheles *25 

Mrs. Alfred Hunt. 


915 That Other Person *25 

3029 The Leaden Casket *25 


Stanley Huntley. 

1466 The Spoopendyke Papers*25 

Jean Ingel ow* 

1863 Quite Another Stoiy *25 

Colonel Prentiss Ingraham. 

1792 The Rival Cousins *25 

“Iota.” 

2088 A Yellow Aster 25 

•090 Miss Milne and 1 25 

Kalph Iron [Olive Schrei- 
ner]. 

1120 The Story of an African 

Farm 25 

1814 Dreams *25 

Washington Irviiig. 

648 The Sketch-Bock of Ge- 
offrey Crayon, Gent 25 

16®2 The Alhambra 25 

Chas. James. 

1864 Galloping Days at the 

Deanery *25 

1869 Against the Grain. .. . .. .*25 

G. P. K. James. 

tlS Agnes Sorel *15 


Harriet Jay. 

334 A Marriage of Conveni' 


ence *2B 

1412 The Dark Colleen *26 

Mrs. C. Jenkin. 

2040 “Who Breaks, Pays ”..*25 

2041 Jupiter’s Daughters. .. .*25 

2050 Skirmishing *25 

2052 Within an Ace *26 


Edward Jenkins. 

458 A Week of Passion ; or. 
The Dilemma of Mr. 
George Barton the 

Younger .*•! 

810 The Secret of Her Life. .*36 

Philip^pa Pi'ittie Jephson. 

176 An April Day *26 

Jerome K. Jerome. 

1331 The Idle Thoughts of an 

Idle Fellow 25 

1359 Stageland 25 

1517 Three Men in a Boat 26 

H. T. Johnson. 

1183 Jack of Hearts. A Story 
of Bohemia *26 

Evelyn Kimball Johnson. 

1361 Tangles Unravelled... ..*26 

Hnmuel Johnson, Eli.D. 

1384 The History of Rasselas, 
Prince of Abyssinia. .. . 21 

H. H. Johnston. 

1212 The History of a Slave. .*26 

Mauriis Jokai. 

2130 Timar’s Two Worlds. ... 26 

Author of “Judith Wynne,” 

332 Judith Wynne *25 

506 Lady Lovelace 

li. Keith. 

1837 A Lost Illusion *2b 

Mrs. F. A. Kemble. 

2059 Far Away and Long Ago*26 

Mrs. Edward Kennard, 

1092 A Glorious Gallop *26 

1282 Matron or Maid *25 

1868 A Crack County *^ 

1871 Straight as a Die *^ 

1924 The Girl in the Brown 
Habit *26 

Grace Kennedy* 

1464 Dunallan .....*||6 





POCKET EDITION. 


Id 


John P, Kennedy. 

1440 Horse-Shoe Robinson .*25 
Richard Aslio Kinff. 

1362 Passion’s Slave *25 

Chwrles Kinirsley. 

t66 The Water-Babies *25 

1320 H 3 'patia *^ 

1985 Two Years Agro *^ 

Henry Kingsley. 

1710 Austin Eliot *25 

1712 The Hillyars and the 

Burtons *25 

1715 Leighton Court *25 

1718 Geoffrey Hamlyn *25 

William H. (4. Kingston. 

117 A Tale of the Shore and 

Ocean *25 

133 Peter the Whaler *25 

761 Will Weatherhelm *25 

763 The Midshipman, Mar- 

m ad uke IM er rv *25 

1568 Round the World *25 

1573 Mark Seaworth *25 

1577 The Young Foresters *25 

1580 Salt Water *25 

1952 Dick Chevejey *25 

Beatrice Kipling. 

1925 The Heart of a Maid ..*25 


Kiidyard Kipling. 

1439 Plain Tales from the 

Hills 25 

1443 SoldiersThree. and Other 
Stories 25 


1479 'I’he Phantom ’Rickshaw 25 
1499 The Story of the Gadsb 3 ^s 25 
1719 The Light That Failed. . 25 
1809 Under the Deodars, and 

Other Tales 25 

1909 Mine Own People 25 

21.31 American Notes 25 

J133 The Courting of Dinah 

Shadd 25 

1. I. Kraszewski. 

1174 The Polish Princess *25 

1307 The Princess and the 

Jew *25 

Author of “lindy Gwendo- 
len’s Trj’st.” 

809 Witness My Hand *25 

May liaflan. 

#81 A Singer’s Story *^ 

1024 Christy Carew *25 

9095 The Hon. Miss Ferrard..*26 

A. £. Liancaster. 

180S All’s Dross But Love. . . . *25 


A’lidi'ew Lang. 

773 The Mark of Cain *86 

1635 The World’s Desire. By 
H. Rider Haggard and 
Andrew Lang *16 

Mrs. Andrew Lang. 

536 Dissolving Views *26 

A. TiA Pointe. 

1612 Rival Doctors... *26 

Hon. Emily Lawless. 

748 Hurrish: A Study *25 

2062 A Millionaire’s Cousin..*^ 
M. E. Le Clerc. 

1220 Mi.stress Beatrice Cope; 
or, Passages in the Life 
of a Jacobite’s Daugh- 


ter *26 

Vernon l.(ee. 

399 Miss Brown *25 


859 Ottilie: An Eighteenth 
Century Idyl. By Ver- 
non Lee. The Prince of 
th^ 100 Soups. Edited 

by Vernon Lee *25 

1727 A Phantom Lover *^ 

Jules Lermiua. 

1622 The Chase *26 

H. F. I jester. 

1531 Hartas Maturiu *26 

Charles Ijever. 

191 Harry Lorrequer 25 

212 Charles 0’Malle3% the 

Irish Dragoon 26 

243 Tom Burke of “Ours.” 25 
2070 Jack Hinton, the Guards- 
man 36 

Fanny Ijewald. 

436 Stella *25 

George IleniT Ijew'es. 

442 Ranthorpe *36 

Paul Liiidaii. 

2053 Klaus Brewer's Wife. . . .*96 
M avr Linshill. 

473 A Lost Son *26 

620 Between t h e Heather 
and the Northern Sea.. *26 
1687 In Exchange for a Soul. *96 

Mrs. E. Ijynn Linton. 

122 lone Stewart *25 

817 Stabbed in the Dark *25 

886 Paston Carew, Million- 
aire and Miser *25 

1109 Through the Long Nights*S6 

1417 Under Which Lord? *96 

1507 Sowing th« Wind *26 


20 


THE SEASIDE LIBHARY. 


Mrs. liOdge. 

174 Under a Ban *25 

Author of “ TiOver and 
L.ord.’» 

610 A Mad Love 25 

Samuel Lover. 

663 Handy Andy 25 

664 Rory O’More *25 

1386 The Happy Man and the 

Hall Porter *25 

Henry W, Lucy. 

1452 Gideon Fleyce *25 

Henry C. Lukens. 
t-i75 Jets and Flashes *25 

Edna liyall. 

738 In the Golden Days. ..... 25 

1147 Knight-Errant 25 

1149 Donovan: A Modern En- 
glishman 25 

1160 We Two 25 

1173 Won by Waiting 25 

1196 A Hardy Norseman 25 

1197 The Autobiography of a 

Slander 25 

1208 Derrick Vaughan — 
Novelist 25 

Sir E. Bulwer Lytton. 

40 The Last Days of Pom- 
peii 25 

83 A Strange Story 25 

90 Ernest Maltravers 25 

130 Tlie Last of the Barons. 25 

161 The Lady of Lyons. 

Founded on the Play... 25 

162 Eugene Aram *25 

164 Leila; or. The Siege of 

Grenada 25 

WO Alice: or, The Mysteries. 

(A Sequel to “Ernest 

Blnltravers ”) 25 

720 Paul Clifford 25 

1144 Rieuzi 25 

1326 What Will He Do With It? 25 

1339 The Caxtons 25 

1393 The Coming Race *25 

1420 The Haunted House 25 

1446 Zanoni 25 

1448 Night and Morning 25 

1474 Money *25 

'1485 Richelieu 25 

1492 Pelham 25 

1510 The Disowned 25 

1612 Kenelm Chillingly 25 

1521 Devereux *25 

1524 Lucretia *25 

1526 The Parisians *25 

1532 My Novel. Part 1 25 

1582 My Novel. Part IT 25 

1632 My Novel. Fart lU 25 

16S4 Harold.. • 25 


Maarten Maartens. 

1323 The Sin of Joost Aveliugh 26 
1651 The Black Box Murder.. *25 
1885 An Old Maid’s Love *25 

Hugh MacColl. 

1319 Mr. Strangers’ Sealed 
Packet *25 

George Macflonald. 

282 Donal Grant *25 

325 The Portent *26 

326 Phantasies. A Faerie Ro- 

mance for Men and 

Women *25 

722 What’s Mine’s Mine *25 

1041 Home Again *26 

1118 The Elect Lady *26 

Clinrles Mackay. 

1754 The Twin Soul *26 

Norman Macleod, D.l). 

158 The Starling *25 

Katharine S. Macquoid. 

479 Louisa *25 

914 Joan Wentworth *25 

1283 Cosette *25 

1306 The Haunted Fountain, 
and Hetty’s Revenge.. .*25 

1311 At the Red Glove *25 

1473 ]\Iiss Eyon of Eyon Court 25 

1495 The Old Courtyard *26 

1691 Elizabeth Morley *26 

1856 Mrs. Rumbold’s Secret. .*25 

Author of Mademoiselle 
Mori.” 

920 A Child of the Revolution*25 
liady Margaret Majendie. 

185 Dita *25 

1872 On the Scent *25 

2030 Giannetto *26 

Lucas Malet. 

493 Colonel Enderby’s W:fe.*26 
1771 The Wages of Sin 26 

Alessandro Manzoni. 

581 The Betrothed. (I Pro- 
messi Sposi) *26 

E. Marlitt. 

652 The Lady with the Rubies 25 
858 Old Ma’m’selle’s Secret. 25 

972 Gold Elsie 26 

999 The Second Wife 25 

1093 In the Schillingscourt. .. 26 
1111 In the Counsellor’s House 26 

1113 The Bailiff’s Maid 25 

1115 The Countess Gisela 96 

1130 The Owl-House ^ 

1136 The Princess of the Moor 95 


POCKET EDITION. 


91 


Garnett Maruell. 

1915 Merit versus Money *25 

Captain Marryat. 

88 The Privateersman 25 

272 'J’he Little Savage 25 

279 Rattlin, the Reefer 25 

991 Mr. Midsliipnian Easy. . . 25 

1165 The Sea-King 25 

1218 Masterman Ready 25 

1230 The Phantom Ship 25 

2108 Japhet in Search of a 

2107 Jacob Faithful 25 

Et!ie! r>larryat. 

1519 A Professional Lady- 
Killer *25 

Florence Marryat. 

159 Captain Norton’s Diary, 
and A Moment of Mad 

ness *25 

183 Old Contrairy, and Other 

Stories *25 

208 The Ghost of Charlotte 
Cray, and Other Stories*25 
276 Under the Lilies and 

Roses *25 

444 The Heart of Jane War- 
ner *25 

449 Peeress and Player *25 

689 The Heir Pre.surnptive., .*25 
8!K The Master Passion *25 

860 Her Lord and Master — *25 

861 My Sister the Actress. . .*25 

863 “ iVIy Own Child.” *25 

864 ” No Intentions.” *25 

865 Written in Fire *25 

866 Miss Harrington’s Hus- 

band: or. Spiders of 
Society *25 

867 The Girls of Feversham.*25 

868 Petronel. .' 25 

869 The Poison of Asps *25 

870 Out of His Reckoning. .*25 

872 With Cupid’s Eyes *25 

873 A Harvest of Wild Oats. *25 
877 Facing the Footlights. . .*25 

893 Love’s Conflict *25 

895 A Star and a Heart *25 

897 A n g e ; or, A Broken 

Blossom 25 

899 A Little Stepson *25 

901 A LucUyDisappointment*25 

903 Phyllida *25 

905 The Fair-Haired Alda.. .*25 

939 WTiy Not? *25 

993 Fighting the Air *25 

998 Open Sesame *25 

1004 Mad Dumaresq *25 

1013 The Confessions of 

Gerald Estcourt... *25 

1022 Driven to Bay *25 


1126 Gentleman and Courtier*25 

1184 A Crown Shame *25 

1191 On Circumstantial Evi- 
dence *25 

1250 How They Loved Him. ..*25 

1251 Her Father’s Name *25 

1257 Mount Eden 

1355 Blindfold *25 

1527 A Scarlet Sin *25 

1643 Brave Heart and True. . .*25 
1656 The Root of All Evil. . . .*25 
1674 Her W^orld Against a Lie*25 

1848 The Risen Dead *25 

1868 A Broken Blossom *^ 

I Eiiiiiia Marshall. 

766 No. XIII: or, The Story 
of the Lost Vestal *26 

Owen Marston. 

1918 Lover and Husband *96 

Mrs. Herbert Martin, 

156 “ For a Di-eara’s Sake ”, .*25 

1796 AmorVincit *25 

Harriet Martineau. 

1332 Homes Abroad *25 

1334 For Each and For All. . .*25 
1336 Hill and Valley *25 

1585 Tales of the French 

Revolution *25 

1586 Loom and Lugger *25 

1588 Berkeley the Banker *25 

1593 The Charmed Sea *25 

1594 Life in the Wilds *^ 

1.596 Sowers, Not Reapers *25 

1597 The Glen of the Echoes. *96 

Ik. Marvel. 

2108 Reveries of a Bachelor. 25 

2141 Dream Life 95 

Charles Marvin. 

457 The Russians at the 

Gates of Herat *35 

Helen B. l^Iathers. 

13 Eyre’s Acquittal *25 

221 Cornin’ Thro’ the Rye... 25 

438 Found Out *25 

535 Murder or Manslaughter?*^ 

673 Storv of a Sin *25 

713 “Cherry Ripe” 25 

795 Sam’s Sweetheart *2® 

798 The Fashion of this 

World *25 

799 My Lady Green Sleeves. 25 

1254 Hedri; or, Blind Justice ■*2i 
1830 The Mystery of No. 13... *26 
1907 My Jo.‘ John *96 

A . Matthey. 

1239 The Virgin Widow. A 

Realistic Novel *26 

1432 Duke of Kandos *96 

1436 The Two Ducheises *36 


22 


THE SEASIDE LIBRARY, 


Isabella Fyvie Mayo. 

66:2 The M 3 -stery of Allan 
Grale *25 

VV. S. Mayo. 

1442 The Berber *25 

C. Maxwell. 

1362 A Story of Three Sisters*25 

Jnstia McCarthy. 

121 Maid of Athens *25 

002 Camiola 

685 E 11 fj 1 a n d Under Glad- 
stone. 1880 — 1885 *25 

747 Our Sensation Novel. 
Edited by Justin H. Mc- 
Carthy, M. P . .*25 

779 Doom ! An Atlantic Epi- 
sode *25 

123.3 Roland Oliver *25 

1903 Dolly - *25 

Justin McCarthy and Mrs. 
Campbell I’raeil. 

1403 The Rival Princess *25 

1840 The Ladies’ Gallery *25 

li. T. Meade. 

1295 A Girl of the People *25 

1487 Frances Kane’s Fortune. *25 
1572 How It All Came Round*25 

1631 Heart of Gold *25 

1759 The Honorable Miss *25 

1886 Beforehand *25 

1865 A Life for a Love *25 

tleorge Meredith. 

360 Diana of the Crossways. 25 

1146 Rhoda Fleming *25 

1150 The Egoist *25 

1695 The Case of General 
Ople and Lady Camper*25 
1807 The Tale of Chloe *25 

Paul Meritt. 

1811 Daughters of Eve *25 

Frank Merry field. 

1860 Molly’s Story *25 

Jean Middleinas. 

155 Lady Muriel’s Secret *25 

539 Silvermead *25 

1847 The Maddoxes *25 

Prof. William Minto. 

1910 Was She Good or Bad?.. *25 
1993 The Crack of Doom *25 

Mrs. Molesworth. 

664 “ Us.” Ah Old-fashioned 

Story *26 

996 Marrying and Giving in 
HarHago *86 


1914 That Girl in Black *95 

2026 Hather Court *25 

J. Fitzgerald Molloy. 

1451 How Came He Dead? *25 

1757. A Modern Magician *25 

Florence Montgomery. 

1942 Sea forth *25 

1945 Thwarted *25 

Susanna Moodie. 

1702 Geoffrey Moncton *25 

1704 Flora L.vndsay *25 

1705 Life in the Back woods... *25 

1724 Roughing It in the Bush*25 
1733 Life in the Clearings *25 

George Moore. 

2084 Esther Waters 95 

Arthur Morrison. 

2142 Tales of Mean Streets. . . 35 

Edward H. Mott. 

1481 Pike County Folks *25 

Louisa Muhlbach. 

1677 Frederick the Great and 

His Court *25 

1693 Goethe and Schiller.. ..*25 
1728 The Daughter of an Em- 
press 25 

1737 Queen Hortense * 1 ^ 

Alan Muir. 

172 “Golden Girls” *26 

346 Tumbledown Farm *^ 

Rosa Miilhollaud. 

921 The Late Miss Holling- 

ford..., *36 

Miss Mulock. 

11 John Halifax, Gentle- 
man 25 

345 Miss 'J'ommy, and In a 

House-Boat *25 

808 King Arthur. Not a Love 

Story *25 

1018 Two Marriages *25 

1038 Mistress and Maid *^ 

1053 Young Blrs. Jardine ^ 

David Christie Murray. 

58 Bj' the Gate of the Sea. .*36 
195 “ T li e Way of the 

World ” *25 

320 A Bit of Human Nature*^ 

661 Rainbow Gold 

674 First Person Singular. . .*25 

691 Valentine Strange 

695 Hearts: Queen, Knave, 

and Deuce *96 

698 A Life’s Atonemant... *20 
787 Aunt Rachel. 


POCKET EDITION, 




886 Cynic Fortune *25 

8y8 Bulldog and Butterfly, 
and Julia and Her Ro- 
meo *25 

1102 Young Mr. Barter’s Re- 
pentance .*25 

1162 The Weaker Vessel *25 

1745 One Traveler Returns . .*25 
1887 Old Balzer’s Hero *25 

D. C. iVIurrny and Henry 
llerinan. 

1177 A Dangerous Cat’s-paw. *25 

1214 Wild Darrie *25 

1256 Sweetbriar in Town *25 

1567 The Bishoi»?’ Bible *25 

1922 He Fell Among Thieves. *25 

Author of *^My Ducats and 
My Daughter.” 

376 The Crime of Christmas 

Day *25 

596 My Ducats and My 
Daughter *25 

Author of My 3Iavriage.” 

776 Society’s Verdict *25 

Mrs. J. H. Needell. 

582 Lucia, Hugh and An- 
other *25 

Author of “ Nobody’s Dar- 
ling.” 

164 A Gil l’s Heart *26 

W. E. Norris. 

184 Thirlby Hall 25 

877 A Man of His Word *25 

355 That Terrible Man *25 

500 Adrian Vidal *25 

824 Her Own Doing *25 

848 My Friend Jim *25 

871 A Bachelor’s Blunder. . .*25 

1019 Major and Minor *25 

1084 Chris ' *25 

1141 The Rogue 25 

1203 MissShafto *25 

1258 Jlrs. Yei)tr,n *25 

1278 MisadveLCure *25 

1395 The Baffled Conspirator8*25 

1465 No New Thing *25 

1675 Marcia *25 

1933 Miss Wentworth’s Idea. *25 
1941 Mysterious Mrs.^Wilkin- 

son *25 

19.57 Mr. Chaine’s Son *25 

1995 Heaps of Money *25 

1996 Matrimony *25 

F. E. M. Notley. 

1738 From the Other Side.... *25 
Clhristopher Oakes. 

014 The CMMtdian Senator. .*26 


William O’Brien. 

1920 O'Hara’s Mission *25 

Mrs. Power O’Donoghiie. 

718 Unfairly Won *26 

Alice O’llanlon. 

634 The Unforeseen *25 

1357 A Diamond in the Rough*25 
1857 Chance or Fate? *25 

Georges Oh net. 

219 Lady Clare: or. The 
Master of the Forges. . . 26 

1274 Prince Serge Panine *^ 

1288 A Last Love *25 

1321 The Rival Actresses *25 

1683 A Weird Gift *25 

1860 Claire and the Forge 

Master *26 

1990 Dr. R#meau *25 

Laurence Oliphaut. 

47 Altiora Peto *25 

537 Piccadilly *25 

Mrs. Oliphant. 

45 A Little Pilgrim *25 

177 Salem Chapel *25 

205 The Minister’s Wife *25 

321 The Prodigals, and Their 

Inheritance *26 

337 Memoirs and Resolutions 
of Adam Graeme of 
Mossgray, including 
some Chronicles of the 

Borough of Fendie *26 

345 Madam *26 

861 The House on the Moor. *26 
357 John *25 

370 Lucy Crofton *26 

371 Margaret Maitland *26 

377 Magdalen Hepburn : A 

Story of the Scottish Re- 
formation *26 

402 Lillieslf*af ; or. Passages 
in the Life of Mrs Mar- 
garet Maitland of Sun- 

nyside *26 

410 Old Lady Mary *25 

527 The Days of My Life... *25 

528 At His Gates *25 

568 The Perpetual Curate.. .*25 

569 Harry Muir *25 

603 Agnes. *25 

604 Innocent *25 

605 Ombra *25 

645 Oliver’s Bride *26 

655 The Open Door, and The 

Portrait *25 

687 A Country Gentleman.. .*25 
703 A House Divided Against 

Itself *26 

710 The Greatest Heiress in 
KnglMid,, *26 


34 


THE SEASIDE LIBRARY, 


827 Effie Ogilvie *25 

880 The Son of His Father.. *25 

902 A Poor Gentleman *25 

1471 The Ladies Lindores *25 

1490 Sir Tom *25 

1570 The Wizard’s Son *25 

1882 The Heir Presumptive 
and the Heir Apparent. 25 
1949 The Railway Man and 

His Child *25 

9017 White Ladies *25 

3Iax O’ Kell. 

f908 John Bull and His Island 25 
1222 Jacques Bonhonime, and 
John Bull on the Con- 


tinent *25 

1617 John Bull and His 
Daughters *25 

“ Onitla.” 

4 Under Two Flags 25 

9 Wanda, Countess von 

Szalras 25 

116 Moths 25 

128 Afternoon, and Other 

Sketches *25 

226 Friendship 25 

228 Princess Napraxine. . . . 25 

238 Pascarel 25 

^9 Signa.. . 25 

433 A Rainy June *25 

639 Othmar 25 

671 Don Gesualdo *25 

672 In Mai’emma *25 

874 A House Party *25 

974 Strathmore ; or, Wrought 

Vjj' His Own Hand 25 

961 Granville de Vigne; or, 

Held in Bondage 25 

996 Id alia 25 

1000 Puck 25 

1003 Chandos 25 

1017 Tricotrin 25 

1176 Guildepoy 25 

1308 Svrlin 25 

1575 Ruffino *25 

1937 B6b6e; or. Two Little 
Wooden Shoes *25 

1959 Santa Barbara *25 

1960 Rinaldo *25 

Louisa Parr. 

1428 Robin *25 

1587 Dumps *25 

1997 Hero Car the w *25 

1998 Loyalty *25 

James Payii. 

48 Thicker Than Water... *25 
186 The Canon’s Ward *25 


843 The Talk of the Town. . .*25 
577 In Peril and Privation. .*25 
539 TbeLuqkof the Darreiis*25 


823 The Heir of the Ages. . .**5 

1271 One of the Family *25 

1381 The Burnt Million *25 

1405 The Eavesdropper *25 

1555 The Word and tlie Will*26 

1753 A Prince of the Blood. . .*25 
1888 Sunny Stories and Some 
Shady Ones 

Sylvio Pellico. 

725 My Ten Years’ Imprison- 
ment *26 

Author of “ Petite’s Ro- 
mance.” 

786 Ethel Mildmay’s Follies*26 
F. C. Philips. 

1287 A Daughter’s Sacrifice..*^ 

Arthur W. Pinero. 

1372 Sweet Lavender *26 

Pirkiss. 

1797 A Dateless Bargain *25 

William Pole, F.R.S. 

669 The Philosophy of Whist 25 

Miss Jane Porter. 

660 The Scottish Chiefs 25 

696 Thaddeus of Warsaw... 26 

Cecil Power. 

336 Philistia *26 

611 Babylon *25 

E. Frances Poynter. 

526 Madame De Presnel *26 

1.523 'I'he Failure of Elizabeth*2S 

2031 Ersilia *25 

2036 My Little Lady *25 

2045 Among the Hills *:^ 

Mrs. Campbell Praed. 

428 Zero ; A Story of Monte 

Carlo *25 

477 Affinities *25 

81 1 The Head Station *25 

1296 An Australian Heroine.. *25 
1876 The Soul of Countess 
Adrian *25 

Edgar Allan Poe. 

1602 Narrative of A. Gordon 

Pym *25 

1604 Gold Bug, auti Other 

Tales *26 

1609 The Assignation, and 

Other Tales *25 

1613 The Murders in the Rue 
Morgue *25 

Alice Price. 

908 AWillful Young Wom»u*45 


POCKET EDITION. 


25 


«a 


Eleanor C. Price. 

149 The Captain’s Daughter. 
From the Russian of 


Pushkin *25 

173 The Foreigners *25 

331 Gerald *25 


Author of “ Qundroona.” 

1356 Plot and Counterplot ...*25 

Author of “Queen of the 
County.” 

1438 Margaret and Her Brides- 
maids *25 

Queen Victoria. 

.3 More Leaves from tlie 
Journal of a Life in the 
Highlands *25 

llyder Ragged. 

966 He *25 

9(0 King Solomon’s Wives; 
or. The Phantom Mines*25 

Rudolph Eric Raspe. 

1433 Baron Munchausen 25 

Charles Reade. 

46 Very Hard Cash 25 

98 A Woman-Hater 25 

906 The Picture, and Jack 

of All Trades *25 

210 Readiana: Comments on 
Current Events *25 

213 A Terrible Temptation . . 25 

214 Put Yourself in His Place 25 

216 Foul Play 25 

2:31 GrilYith Gaunt; or, Jeal- 
ousy 25 

232 Love and Money ; or, A 

Perilous Secret 25 

235 “ It is Never Too Late to 
Mend.” A Matter-of- 

Fact Romance 25 

1382 Single Heart and Double 

Face *25 

1648 The Knightsbridge Mys-' 

tery 25 

2069 ” Love Me Little, Love 

Me Long” 25 

2062 The Cloister and the 
Hearth 25 

Compton Reade. 

Under Which King? *25 

R. F. Redd. 

1410 Freckles *25 

1600 The Brierfield Tragedy. .*25 

Captain Mayne Reid. 

9?5 The Finger of Fate *25 


T. Weinyss Reid. 

723 Mauleverer’s Millions.. .*96 
Fritz Reuter, 

750 A n Old Story of My 

Farming Days *2& 

Mrs. J. H. Riddell. 

71 A Struggle for Fame. . .*26 

593 Berna Boyle *25 

1007 Miss Gascoigne *25 

1077 The Nun’s Curse 26 

1273 Susan Drummond *25 

1579 Princess Sunshine *^ 

1842 Idle Tales *25 

1899 My First Love and My 

Last Love 25 

“Rita.” 

252 A Sinless Secret *25 

446 Dame Durden *25 

.598 “ Corinna.” A Study. ..*25 

617 Like Diau’s Kiss *25 

1125 The Mvstery of a Turkish 

Bath *25 

1192 Bliss Kate; or. Confes- 
sions of a Caretaker. ..*25 

1215 Adrian Lyle *25 

1229 ‘'Sheba:” A Study of 

Girlhood *25 

1237 A Vagabond Lover *25 

1252 Tlie Seventh Dream *25 

1253 The Ladye Nancye *25 

1208 Gretchen *25 

i:315 A Society Scandal *25 

1491 The Doctor’s Secret *25 

1760 Two Bad Blue Eyes . . *25 
1706 After Long Grief and 

Pain *25 

1769 Bly Lady' Coquette *25 

1770 Vivienne *25 

1772 Countess Daphne *25 

1773 Faustine *25 

1774 Fragoletta *25 

1778 My Lord Conceit ..*25 

1823 Darby and Joan *25 

1837 The Laird o’ Cockpen..*25 

Miss Roberts. 

2000 Noblesse Oblige *26 

2060 On the Edge of the 

Storm *25 

2061 In the Olden Time *26 

Hir H. Roberts. 

1458 Harry Holbrooke 26 

1647 Curb and Snaffle *26 

1841 In the Sltires ^....*25 

G. M. Robins. 

1731 The Tree of Knowledge. *25 

1929 Keep My Secret *25 

F. Mabel Itobiiisou. 

501 Mr. Butler’s Ward *25 

14.57 A Woman of the World. *96 
1955 Hovenden, V. C 


THE SEASIDE LIBRARY. 

POCKET EDITION. 


LATE ISSUES. 


J(859 Stageiand. By Jerome K. Jer- 
ome 25 

1419 Plain Tales from the Hills. By 

Rudyard Kipling 25 

1441 Amos Barton. By George 

Eliot... 25 

1443 Soldiers Three. By Rudyard 

Kipling 25 

1496 Story of the Gadsbys. By Rud- 

yard Kipling 25 

iSdl Brother Jacob. By George 

Eliot 25 

1517 Three Men in a Boat. By Jer- 
ome K. Jerome 25 

1545 Lover or Friend? By Rosa 

Nouchette Carey 25 

1583 A Marked Man. By Ada Cam- 
bridge 25 

_o20 Under the Will. By Mary Cecil 

Hay 25 

1663 Wormwood. By Marie Corelli. 25 
lff73 M\ First Oflfer.’ By Mary Cecil 

Huy 25 

1719 The Light That Failed. By 

Rudj^ani Kipling 25 

1813 The Greatest Thing in the 

World. By Henry Drummond. 25 
1896 Jly Lady Nicotine. By J. M. 

Barrie 25 

2064 The Vicomte de* Brageloniie. 

By Alexander Dumas 25 

2065 Ten Years Later. By Alexan- 

der Dumas 25 

2066 Louise de la Valliere. By Alex- 

ander Dumas 25 

2067 The jMan in the Iron Mask. By 

Alexander Dumas 25 

2068 Lady Latimer's Escape. By 

Charlotte M. Braeme 25 

2069 “ Love I\Ie Little, Love Me 

Long.” By Charles Reade .. . 25 

2070 Jack Hinton, the Guardsman. 

By Charles Lever. 1st half... 25 
2070 Jack Hinton, the Guardsman. 

By Charles Lever. 2d half. .. 25 

8071 Ships That Pass in the Night. 

By Beatrice Harraden 25 

8072 For Marjorie’s Sake. By Lucy ^ 

Randall Comfort 25 

9073 *• Good Luck;” or, Success, and 

How He Won It. By E. Werner 25 

9074 What the Spring Brought. By 

E. Werner 25 

9075 The Twin Tdeutenants. By Al- 

exand«'r Dumas 25 

2076 The Page of the Duke of Savoy, 

By Alexander Dumas 


2077 The Captain of the “Pole- 


Star.” By A. Conan Doyle... 28 

2078 The Special Correspondent. 

By Jules Verne 26 

2079 A Son of Hagar. By Hall 

Caine 25 

2080 At th.e Allar. By E. Werner.. 26 

2081 Sappho. By Alphonse Dandet 25 

2082 Tl.e Cloister and the Hearth. 

By diaries Reade 2S 

2083 A Yellow Aster. B 5 '^ “Iota”.. 26 

2084 Esther Waters. By George 

Moore 26 

2085 'J'he Man in Black. By Stanley 

J. Weyman 25 

2086 The House of the Wolf. liy 

Stanley J. Weyman 25 

2087 At the Green Dragon. By Be- 

atrice Harraden 26 

2088 Singularl 3 ' Deluded. By Sarah 

Grand 25 

2089 'I he Hired Babj'. By Marie 

Corelli 26 

2090 Miss Milne and I. By “Iota”. 25 

2091 Vashti and Esther. Bj-- the 

Writer of “ Belle’s Letters ”. . 26 

2092 l^ejmnd the City. Bj’ A. Conan 

Dojde 25 

2093 A Scandal in Bohemia. By A. 

Conan Doyle 25 

2094 The Sign of Four. B.^ A. Conan 

Doyle 25 

2095 The Stickit Minister. Bj' S. R. 

Crockett 25 

2097 A Change of Air. B' Anthony 

Hope 25 

2098 The Dolly Dialogues. By An- 

thony Hope .25 

2099 Auld lJcht Idylls. By J. M. 

Barrie 2b 

2100 A IVlndow in Thrums. By J. 

M. Barrie 25 

2101 When a Man's Single. Bj’ J. 

M. Barrie 28 

2102 The Peril of Oliver Sargent. 

By Kdgar Janes Bliss. . ... 25 

2103 The M' sfery of Cloomher. By 

A. Conan Doyle 26 

2104 I-ove Letters of a Worldly 

Woman. By Mrs. W. K. Clif- 
ford 26 

2105 Dodo. By E. F. Benson.. ^ 

21(16 Japhet in Search of a Father. 

Bj- Captain Marryat 28 

2107 Jacob Faithful. Bj" Captain 

Marryat 25 


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GOOD FORM: 

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Price 25 Cents. 

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